Deprived
by faepunk
Summary: AU. Everyone needs a way to cope, but the way Michael and Sara have chosen could endanger their lives, and they don't even know it. As they fight their ways out of eating disordered hell, they learn to lean on each other, but is that enough?
1. The Beginning

Michael felt heat flow through his face as he stepped off the bus

Michael felt heat flow through his face as he stepped off the bus. He knew it was completely unreasonable of him; no one absolutely KNEW where he was headed. But he knew, and that made it embarrassing.

The fifteen-year-old slouched, shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his second-hand blue jeans. Did they have to have such a huge sign on the front of the building, to make this experience even worse than it already was? Why couldn't Lincoln do this? But he knew the answer to that. Lincoln wouldn't do this. And since Lincoln was, yet again, between jobs, without Michael's sacrifice of pride, he and LJ would go hungry.

He ducked his head as he walked through the door into the building, just like he always did. He didn't have to read the sign to know the place anymore. Chicago Area Food Shelf.

"Oh my God, are you serious?" she heard another dancer say as she entered the dressing room. "I thought that was just a joke."

"There is no way she could make it in that part, as tall as she is—" another girl replied, giggling.

Both girls froze when they saw Sara. Finally, the first dancer, a girl named Michelle, said, "Hi Sara," sounding extremely uncomfortable.

"Hi," Sara said. She put her dance bag on one of the benches and opened it, taking out her neatly folded leotard and tights and turning her back to the rest of the girls changing into their dance clothes.

She changed quickly and stashed her bag in the corner, leaving the other dancers behind as she moved into the studio.

They'd been talking about her, Sara knew it. The fifteen-year-old was 5 feet 8 inches tall, and she prayed that she was finished growing. But there was nothing she could do about her height…except be a damn good dancer.

Michael struggled to open the door with his arms full of bags from the food shelf, but finally he got the key to turn. The door flew open, and the bag he'd been leaning against it went flying into the main room of their apartment.

"Shit!" Michael cried as the cans of food flew across their dirty carpet. He watched in horror as one of the cans hit LJ where he was sitting on the carpet, playing with a matchbox car. The almost-five-year-old let out a loud wail. "LJ, I'm sorry!" he said, rushing over to the little boy.

LJ kept crying. "Oww!" he whined. "You threw it at me!"

"I didn't throw anything at you. The bag broke," Michael said. "Let me see your leg."

LJ showed his leg to Michael, who inspected it. There wasn't even a red mark. "You're alright," he said. "Shh. Where's your daddy?"

"I was asleep," Lincoln growled. "What the hell is all this noise about?"

Michael straightened up and looked over to Lincoln, who was standing in the hallway and leaning against the wall. He looked angry, and his eyes were bloodshot. From a lack of sleep, or from pot; Michael wasn't sure which.

"The bag broke," Michael said.

"No shit," Lincoln replied. "Why the fuck does that require screaming?"

Michael bit back a groan of frustration. Lincoln was going to be difficult, of course. Why did he always have to be difficult when Michael was already at the end of his rope?

Michael shook his head. "Sorry," he said. He turned and stooped, picking up the cans from the food shelf.

He could feel Lincoln watching him. "You went to the food shelf again." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah," Michael said, carrying the first armload into the kitchen.

"Stop doing that," Lincoln said. "We don't need that kind of help. Don't you think food stamps are enough?"

Michael flung open their cabinets, which were empty except for a box of Saltines, half-gone. "I don't know," Michael replied sarcastically. "There's no food in here. It's not like YOU were gonna go get us more food. Or did you find some magical job while I was doing the food shelf trek?" His embarrassment over having to go to the food shelf was just magnified by Lincoln's anger that he'd done such a thing. They needed the food, didn't they? What else would they eat?

He turned his back on Lincoln and put one of the cans inside the cupboard.

He heard Lincoln's footsteps crossing the carpet really fast, and he turned instinctually, just in time for Lincoln to grab his shoulder and slap him, hard. Michael reeled from the unexpected attack. He flinched and threw his hands up.

Lincoln shoved him back against the counter. "Don't be a smart ass with me," he warned. "I'm doing all I fucking can, so don't mess with me! You think you can do it better, be my guest! Otherwise, you can just shut the fuck up about what a goddamn bad job I'm doing!"

And then Lincoln was stepping across the living room in huge steps, and he was gone, his coat in his hand. Michael flinched again as the door slammed hard after him.

He blinked a few times, then took a deep breath and brought one hand up to his stinging cheek. That had been one hell of a slap.

"Uncle Mike?" He heard LJ's voice, and he looked down to where his nephew was sitting on the floor. Oh God. "Why did Daddy hit you?"

Shit. "I did something bad," Michael replied, without thinking. Then he winced inwardly. What a great thing to teach his nephew, that his daddy would hit him if he was bad. "And I'm too big for a spanking," he added, figuring his nephew would understand that concept.

LJ nodded, looking sage as only a little kid can. "You should be good, Uncle Mike," he said solemnly. "Daddy's spankings hurt."

Michael hand touched his cheek again. It still felt hot from Lincoln's hand. "Yeah," he said. "I know."

Sara checked her posture in the mirror again. She felt gargantuan suddenly, and it was all Michelle and Leanne's fault. Too tall for the part? She could get it; she was a really good dancer! They were just jealous, that was all.

Around her, the other dancers seemed so petite suddenly though. Even the next tallest girl, Hannah, was shorter than she was by two inches. And smaller-boned, it seemed. Her shoulders were so wide, compared to theirs.

God. She'd never noticed how huge she was, before today. How had she stared in the mirror since age six and never noticed her outrageous height? Her completely less-than-optimal bone structure?

"Miss Tancredi!" Madame cried. "Stand up straight, please! We are ballerinas! We do not slouch!"

Sara blushed and corrected her posture. She saw Leanne turn her head slightly and whisper something. Michelle giggled primly. Neither girl faltered the least in their sequence.

"Alright, ladies, that is enough for today," Madame said. "Go change, and I'll post the parts on the dressing room door. I know you've all been waiting impatiently for the results."

Sara hurried into the dressing room with the other dancers and stripped out of her tights and leotard, carefully folding them and placing them inside her dance bag. She stepped into her street clothes quickly and followed the rest of them out to where Madame had posted the parts.

"I got it!" she heard Michelle cry. "Yes!"

Oh no. She and Michelle had been vying for the same part. Did that mean…well, she wouldn't assume.

She pushed up to the door and hunted for her name. Finally she came to it at the dead bottom of the list. Her heart sank.

Sara Tancredi…………2nd Understudy.

She felt her throat get thick with tears, but she blinked hard and turned away from the door, hoisting her bag higher on her shoulder.

She left the dance studio quickly.

Her part? She wouldn't even be onstage unless two people got ill, or broke their legs. She wasn't a really good dancer. She wasn't anything. Except a giraffe. Michelle and Leanne were right. What had she been thinking?

Her father's driver was sitting out there in the black sedan. She got in without a word and buckled her seatbelt.

"Are you alright, Miss Tancredi?" the driver inquired politely.

"I'm fine," she replied.

His job done, he put the car in drive and started towards the house. Sara forced herself to hold in her tears.

She would not cry. Crying was not productive. Crying would not get her the part, nor the next part, nor the next. She couldn't fix her height…but maybe she could do some exercises. Make her body look more dancer-like? Some toning, or cardio? She didn't exercise much out of the studio…but she could start. If she was really, really fit, maybe she could make herself into a better dancer. The best dancer. And then Madame would ignore her giraffe-like height, and just see Sara. Just see how Sara could dance.

It was a plan. And Sara could do that.

"I think that's a great idea, Sara," her father said.

"Really?" Sara said. "You'd pay for a personal trainer for me?" She couldn't believe it. She'd thought she'd have to argue with her father for a long time, but he was just going to give in, right away.

"Well, yes," Frank Tancredi replied. "It's always good to try to improve your health and get in shape. You wouldn't want to get fat like your mother, after all."

Sara winced at her father's cruelty, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Anyway, I know that you're a bigger girl, genetically, and you just have to work a little harder to stay trim. That's your mother's fault; you just inherited that."

Sara looked down into her lap, feeling her ears get hot. Was her dad calling her fat? She stared at her thighs. Maybe with good reason; they suddenly seemed huge.

"Don't worry. I'm sure a few months with a personal trainer and you'll be in the best shape of your life. I'll have one of my people find one for you. You just decide what you want out of it, and he or she will show you how to get it. Make it worth my money, Sara. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," she replied.

"Okay then," he said. "Go on, then."

He nodded at her, and Sara nodded back, then let herself out of her father's office.

She raced to her room and shut the door, locking it behind her. She needed to assess right now, exactly how bad this situation with her body was, and decide what she wanted.

She stood in front of the mirror on her wall and pulled off her clothes, leaving them in a small pile on the floor next to her. Then she studied her body, trying to look through someone else's eyes.

She was horrified.

"It would be easier to list what not to change," she muttered to herself, running her hands over her stomach. "No wonder Dad was calling me fat. He was just being honest!"

Suddenly, her reflection made her feel ill. She reached for her clothes and yanked them back on as fast as she could. Then she grabbed her journal and opened to a fresh page, falling facedown on her bed.

"Diet. Exercise," she wrote. "I am going to get a dancer's body, with thin arms and legs, tight muscles, narrow torso, small breasts. No wonder I'm just the understudy…it's not a show for dancing zoo animals. And even if it was, what do they do with a combination of giraffe and elephant? Put it in a freak show!"

She put down her pen and thought. There were diets in all those magazines. She'd do one of those…or maybe the trainer could help her out…but until then, she'd do a magazine diet.

She shook her head. However she'd let herself get so bad, she wouldn't let herself stay that way.

Michael wasn't hungry. He plopped a plate of macaroni and cheese in front of LJ and said, "Eat."

LJ picked up his fork and dug in eagerly. Michael watched him, thinking that at least LJ didn't have to look at that food and think about everything Michael had gone through to get it. The food shelf, and the bus ride home with those bags of food, feeling like he had a sign on his back…and then Lincoln's crazy over-reaction to a little bit of angry sarcasm…no wonder Michael had no appetite.

On the other hand, because Michael wasn't eating, there was enough macaroni and cheese left over for tomorrow's lunch for LJ too, and maybe dinner, depending on how much his nephew actually ate.

This lack of appetite thing could be good, he mused. It would mean less trips to the food shelf. That would be great. Lincoln always said he ate like a horse anyway; it wouldn't kill him to eat less.

Michael pinched at his stomach. There was a definite roll of pudge there; not a huge one, but enough. He remembered reading in health class that if you could pinch an inch of fat, that was too much. There was at least an inch there. That was supposed to be bad for your heart.

So he could kill two birds with one stone then. Less trips to the food shelf and get healthier. He wondered if he could get his hands on that old health book again and see what kind of advice it had.

He heard a key in the lock, and his muscles tensed. Lincoln was back. Would he still be angry? He didn't want to have it out in front of LJ, not again. Especially not after that display earlier. LJ was getting old enough that Michael worried about the effect Lincoln's temper would have on him. Lincoln didn't often lose his temper like he had earlier; he'd only slapped Michael a handful of times in his entire life. But when Lincoln got angry, he got physical. He grabbed and pushed and yanked and shook; it was just how he dealt with things. But Michael knew that watching that would be scary, in the eyes of a four year old.

"Michael?" Lincoln said.

"In the kitchen," Michael said, forcing himself to keep his voice normal.

Lincoln walked in. "Hi Daddy," LJ said, still shoveling macaroni into his mouth.

"Hi, LJ," Lincoln replied. He ruffled his son's hair before turning to look at Michael. "You okay?"

Michael knew he was asking about earlier. He nodded. "I'm fine," he replied. He'd been surprised, but Lincoln hadn't _harmed_ him. "We're both fine."

"I went to Vee's," Lincoln said.

Michael nodded again. "You want some mac and cheese?" he asked, pointing over his shoulder towards the stove. Usually he would have made some comment about how it was the best money couldn't buy, but not today. He and Lincoln were still on that shaky, stilted ground.

"Ate at Vee's," Lincoln said. "I just came by to check on you two. I'm heading over to Derrick's for a little bit. I'll be back later. Lock the door, alright?"

"Yeah," Michael replied, feeling strangely glad that his brother was going again. The tension was too thick; he couldn't imagine trying to tiptoe around all night like this.

"Alright. I'll see you later, okay buddy? Listen to Uncle Mike," Lincoln said, leaning down and kissing the top of LJ's head. "See you later Michael."

"Later," Michael replied.

He watched as Lincoln crossed the apartment again and left. The door shut more quietly behind him than it had after his last exit. The silence seemed stark.

LJ was still eating, but Michael stood up and crossed over to the door to lock it. The lock clicked into place.

Michael was tired. This day had been so strange. He blinked a few times, his eyes suddenly feeling heavy.

"You tired yet, LJ?" he asked.

"Uh-uh," LJ said around a mouthful of orange macaroni. "I'm done though." He held his bowl up.

Michael took the bowl from him and deposited it into the sink. "You wanna watch TV?" he asked with a sigh. He knew the answer to that already, and he had a lot of homework he had to do. It would give him the time he needed to get his homework done and the dishes cleaned up without LJ whining around him every three minutes.

"Yeah!" LJ said.

"Okay." Michael hit the power button. They didn't have cable, but LJ would happily watch almost anything, and Michael took advantage of that. "Sit down, okay?"

LJ settled about three inches away from the screen as a rerun of 'Everybody Loves Raymond' came on. Perfect.

Michael sighed and grabbed his backpack from its place near the door where he'd deserted it much earlier. He'd nearly forgotten about all his algebra, but he knew Mr. Gibson wouldn't forget about it.

In the background, he heard the laugh track.


	2. The Continuation

"You're really looking good, Sara," her trainer, an athletic man named Lance, said

"You're really looking good, Sara," her trainer, an athletic man named Lance, said. "Look how nice and strong your arms are getting!"

Sara looked critically at her own arms. "Look," she said, flapping her arms in the air like a crazy woman directing a choir. "They still jiggle under here." She slapped at the underside of her triceps for emphasis.

"Jiggle? There's nothing to jiggle there, Sara!" Lance replied. "Maybe you need to get your eyes checked." He patted her shoulder. "Okay. Squats now."

She checked out her own posture in the mirror. The man was nuts. She could see perfectly well with her own two eyes. Her body didn't look any better than it ever had. Of course Lance would say it did, though; he was paid to make her look better. It wasn't like he would admit he wasn't doing his job.

She did the first of her squats and studied her reflection. She could do more than this. She had access to this equipment whether or not Lance was here; she might as well take advantage of it. She could make results happen. She was Sara Tancredi; she made results happen all the time.

Michael's stomach growled loudly. Next to him, his lab partner giggled. He blushed and pretended to be really busy taking notes.

Of course, he and Lincoln had found a truce like they always did, and Michael's appetite had returned. But he'd decided that the decision he'd made in the heat of the moment was a good one, especially when he'd studied himself in the mirror after a shower. It wouldn't hurt anything if he lost some weight, he'd decided, looking at his belly with disgust, and he was going to avoid the food shelf as much as possible. There was no need to rile Lincoln up any more than necessary. Money was still tight, and however Lincoln was paying the bills, it didn't involve a 9-to-5. Michael intentionally didn't allow himself to know.

It didn't make things any easier though, when he was so hungry all the time. He drank water like a fish, trying to fill his empty belly, but that only lasted so long, and his teachers got irritated when he was always asking for passes to the bathroom (and the drinking fountain). One had even suggested he be tested for diabetes!

The bell rang. He grabbed his notebook and threw it hastily in his backpack. He had to go to Lisa's apartment and get LJ so she could get to work on time, and the bus outside the school that ran past her house always left the school exactly five minutes after three. He started towards the buses at a sprint.

He made it in time and settled into the first available seat, pulling his homework out of his backpack. It would take fifteen minutes to get to the stop closest to Lisa's apartment, and that would be fifteen minutes worth of homework he wouldn't have to try to do with LJ wanting to be entertained later.

He finished his English assignment by the time the bus pulled to the stop closest to Lisa's, and stuffed it into his bag before stepping off the bus. It was about six blocks to Lisa's, and he took them at a fast walk.

He knocked on her door before letting himself in with one of the keys hanging from his neck by a shoelace. "Lisa?" he called, still standing in the doorway.

"Yeah," she called back.

"It's Michael," he said unnecessarily.

"LJ's watching TV," she replied. She came out of her bedroom, both hands busy putting a large hoop earring into her left ear. She worked as a bartender at a local place; that was where she and Lincoln had met. Both had been underage at the time, but it was that kind of bar. She smiled at Michael. "Thanks for getting him. I knew Lincoln wouldn't."

Michael nodded awkwardly. He hated that Lisa had to point out Lincoln's shortcomings; Michael knew them as well as anybody, but he always felt compelled to defend his older brother, who was doing the best he could. The guy was only 23; Michael didn't know if he could have done better. "He's busy," Michael said lamely.

"Yeah. I know," Lisa said, sounding tired. "LJ!" she called.

There was no response. Lisa rolled her eyes.

"LJ Burrows! Your Uncle Mike's here to get you! Get your little butt in here!"

"Uncle Mike!" LJ's voice came in from the living room. "Come here!"

"I'll go get him," Michael said.

"Thanks Michael," Lisa said. She turned back into her bedroom.

Michael walked into the living room, where LJ was staring at the TV set. Barney was blaring.

"Ugh," Michael said. He hit the power button. "Come on LJ. Let's go."

"No!" LJ cried. "I wanna watch that!"

"We have to catch the bus," Michael said. "Come on." He looked around. "Get your shoes on, okay? I'll tie them for you."

"Okay," LJ said. He scampered out of the living room and towards the door. Michael sighed and followed after him.

In her dance class, Sara studied her reflection in the mirror, comparing herself with the other girls. Still taller, but that wasn't going to change, no matter how many crunches she did, she reminded herself. But her arms…well, did they look better? Maybe…she followed the rest of the class into fifth position and carefully studied her triceps. Maybe they did look a little different. They could still look better though. They could be thinner, and more toned. She could make them as thin as Leanne's, if she really worked at it. She could!

She went into a graceful plie, and studied her thighs. Now…those needed more work. They were too big. And was that jiggle? She could not jiggle. She could practically hear Madame's voice.

"Miss Tancredi, we are ballerinas. Ballerinas do not jiggle!"

Indeed. Well, she would not jiggle soon enough.

She moved into second position along with the rest of the class.

"That personal trainer seems to be making a real difference, Sara," her father said at dinner.

Sara looked up from the salad she was poking at. "Huh?" she said intelligently, pulled out of her calculations.

"Have you been working hard with him? I can tell," Frank Tancredi said.

"Oh. Yes. Thank you," Sara said.

"Well. That's wonderful," he replied. "I'm glad you've made good use of my investment."

Sara flushed. His investment? Geez. That made her feel like…like a doll or something. Like he was fixing her up for something. But she forced out a bland smile.

"Keep up the good work," he said.

"Of course," Sara replied. She stabbed rather savagely at her salad, but other than that, she gave no voice to the inner confusion she felt.

That night, in the gym, she ran like a woman possessed. Her feet beat against the rubber track of the treadmill, her breath thundering in her ears.

This wasn't his investment, no matter what he thought. This was HER investment. This was HER body and HER investment. She was fixing herself so SHE could be happy with herself, and with how she looked. She was doing this so she would get the parts she wanted, and so those stupid girls in her dance classes couldn't say all that stupid shit.

This was HERS, damn it! And she wasn't going to stop until she was happy with it!

She kept running long into the night.

LJ was asleep on the couch, finally. Michael had finished his homework, and now he needed to clean up the apartment before he too could crash.

He cleared his and LJ's dinner dishes off the table. LJ's was smeared with macaroni and cheese; it was all the kid would eat lately. His were clean as if no one had eaten off of them; he'd scraped the small amount of macaroni and cheese he'd allowed himself clean. His stomach growled, as if to protest exactly how small that amount had been.

But this little plan of his had been working well. He'd gotten the stupid trips to the food shelf down to a minimum; he'd only gone once since that fateful time when he and Lincoln had fought, and as for his diet…well, that wasn't going so well. He could still pinch that stupid inch. He was obviously fated to die of heart disease. But he wasn't going to give up. He just had to try harder. Anyway, he knew he'd lost some weight; his wrists were a little thinner than they'd been before. But his stomach wasn't. It flummoxed him that he'd only lose weight where there wasn't much to lose, and not lose any where there was plenty. Persistence would change that though, right?

He scrubbed the dishes in the sink, and wiped down the counter, then the table. He wanted to do more, but exhaustion struck him suddenly. He looked at the watch strapped to his wrist. Almost midnight.

He'd sleep now. He could finish cleaning tomorrow.


	3. The Escalation

Michael wiped off the bathroom mirror, and studied his nude reflection

Michael wiped off the bathroom mirror, and studied his nude reflection.

What the hell was he doing wrong? Obviously, there was something he was missing, because he was doing everything he could think of to lose weight, and yet his stupid, fat stomach was still there, like a beach ball on his otherwise pretty thin body. It looked so disproportionate.

His legs were skinny and muscled, and his arms were thin. He could see his collarbones. His wrist bones showed. But his damned stomach…it was like it was growing, or something. Jeez.

He'd hit the library, he decided. Maybe there was something there he could read there that would tell him how he could lose that belly of his. After all, if what you were doing wasn't working…find another plan. Right? There was always another way. Always.

He wrapped a towel around his hips and left the bathroom.

Sara studied her body in the mirror. She was still bigger than the rest of the class! It was like the more weight she lost, the more weight they lost too, until there was no way she could be as thin as they were.

She moved into first position, and compared her thighs to those of the other girls. There was a veritable gap between Hannah's thighs, even though her knees were touching. No such gap existed for her. Sheesh. How much weight would she have to lose, still?

And Natalie's arms! They were like toothpicks, compared to the pillars of fat hanging off of Sara's own shoulders. She stretched hers out as she plied, and compared. Yes, pillars was the correct word indeed. Good lord.

Well, she could do better. Whatever she was doing wrong, she could figure it out. Maybe if she asked Lance for some more tips on weight loss, that would help. He'd told her some before, but maybe he had some secret ones he'd kept to himself or something. She'd get them out of him, if they existed.

If there was a will, there was a way, and if Sara had one thing, it was the will.

Michael poured over the pile of books stacked in front of him, taking neat, small notes in a blue notebook. Notes about metabolism, notes about nutrition and body composition…and notes about, of all things, eating disorders.

He'd come across a book about anorexia and bulimia nervosa. It talked about how the diseases struck teenage girls…but it also talked about their techniques for weight loss. And while Michael wasn't a girl, he WAS trying to lose weight, and all the normal stuff he'd tried hadn't worked…so he could borrow something extreme, couldn't he? It was just tips. And he wasn't nuts—he wasn't about to go throwing up his food! That would be a hell of a waste. The whole point of this endeavor, after all, was to save money, not waste it.

He made more careful notes in his notebook.

"C'mon, Lance…you have to have more weight loss tips," Sara said, doing another set of reps.

"You've got to be kidding me, little girl," Lance said, looking at her. "Have you looked in the mirror, lately? You're already bordering on too skinny!"

Sara snorted and set down her weights. "Me? Too skinny?" She stood in front of the mirror on the wall. "Look at this! Look at these legs! They're huge!" She pinched at a jiggly piece of fat on her inner thigh. "And my arms? Are they supposed to look like they belong to some sort of, of…biker mama or something?" She plaintively held out her arms for Lance to inspect.

"That teeny tiny bump is a muscle, Sara," Lance said. "Trust me. You don't need to lose any more weight." He studied her, looking concerned. "Please. Look at yourself for a second."

Sighing, Sara studied her reflection in the mirror, then snuck a glance at Lance's face. He looked worried. Why did he look so damn worried? Well, fine. She knew how to take care of his worry.

"I guess you're right," she lied. "I just got a little carried away, I guess, looking at the other girls in my class. They're just so thin, that's all."

"You're pretty thin yourself, Sara," Lance said. "You don't want to get so skinny you look sick, do you?"

"Of course not!" Sara said. And that was true enough; she had no wish to look sick. She just wanted to be thin, that was all.

Maybe she'd just have to do it without Lance.

Now, Michael felt guilty. But all those books, every last one of them, said that if you wanted to lose weight, you needed to know how much you weighed. So he'd have to buy a scale, right?

He knew if Lincoln found out about this, he would more than kill him. They were dirt poor—they couldn't afford to spend twenty bucks on a bathroom scale. Michael figured he could hide it under his bed or something, but still…he'd have to spend the money to buy the damn thing in the first place.

"Well, it's twenty dollars I didn't eat," he defended to himself, "and if I'd been eating, I would have eaten way more than twenty dollars worth of food by now. So I can take twenty bucks and buy it."

And so he did, shielding it under his jacket when he brought it back into his apartment.

At first, he just weighed himself once every couple of days…but then, he started to do it more often. Every morning…then twice a day….then three times…and then, every time he went into his bedroom.

But those books were right. Seeing that number quickly motivated him; he ate less, he moved more, and those numbers got smaller. He diligently recorded them in his blue notebook, in his small, neat writing.

But one thing he still didn't understand was why his stomach didn't appear to change at all. He could still pinch that inch…and there didn't seem to be anything he could do about it.

But Michael was determined that he was not going to give up.

Her scale had stopped moving. Just stopped. And she was starving, all the time, her stomach uproariously hungry, and no matter how many hours she spent in the gym, that damn scale always said the same number. And that number was way, way too big. Sara sighed and flopped down on her bed, trying to think.

She was so sick of this. She worked really hard…and it was all for nothing.

Other dancers did this other ways, she knew they did. She'd heard them talking about it at dance camp when she was 14; the water pills and the laxatives and the throwing up. At the time she'd just shrieked, "Eww, gross!" but now she felt closer to the camp of the girls who'd just shrugged and raised their eyebrows speculatively. Really, was it that gross? It would certainly take up less time then all this exercise…and if it worked, she'd be happy.

She stood, stepped on her scale again, and stared down at the number. Too high. God. A month ago, if she'd seen that number she would have been elated. Now, it was fat. And it had stayed at that same number for far too long. Something absolutely had to change.

She thought again of the girls at camp, how Tatiana said, "Oh my God, it's so easy, and you stay so skinny! I'm serious!" And she had been so skinny; Sara remembered how she'd seen the girl's chest bones in her leotards.

She was getting desperate. Maybe it was worth a try? If she hated it, she could always stop. And if it worked, well…that would be amazing.

She'd just try it. What could it hurt, after all?

"Damn, Michael," Lincoln said. "Aren't you hungry?" He looked pointedly at the meager amount of food Michael had put on his own plate, compared to the amount on Lincoln's own, and even the amount on LJ's.

"Oh…" Michael said. He felt his ears get hot. Lincoln never seemed to notice his lack of eating before. "I had pizza after school," he lied. "The math club was celebrating." After all, Lincoln didn't know there was no math club.

"You're in math club?" Lincoln said mockingly. "Come on, Michael. How are you gonna get a girlfriend hanging out in math club?"

Michael just shrugged, glad that Lincoln was focused on something other than the amount of food on his plate. "There's a couple of girls in math club…" he defended.

"Oh, really?" Lincoln said. "You go for the girls with the pocket protectors?"

"Shut up," Michael replied good-naturedly. He could defend these girls that didn't even exist; why not? They were saving his skin. "They're nice, anyway."

"Yeah…if you go for goggle glasses and zits," Lincoln replied, laughing. "Jeez, Michael. You could have at least joined, I don't know, the debate team or something."

"Yeah," Michael said, and then he got a flash of brilliance, "but the debate team doesn't have pizza!"

Lincoln just shook his head.

"Pizza!" LJ cried. "I want pizza!"

"Eat your Hamburger Helper," Lincoln told him.

Michael let out a silent sigh of relief that the subject had been dropped. He'd have to think more quickly on his feet, though…the math club (which he'd now have to remember existed…) couldn't always have pizza.

Jeez

.

"Come on, Sara! You never come out with us anymore!" Katie complained. "Please!"

Sara sighed. "But—" she said.

"Come on! You don't have dance class today, I know you don't," Katie said. "Can't you just be a normal person for once and come hang out with your friends?"

Sara looked at her best friend, who was hanging on her locker, looking plaintive.

"Katie," she said. "You know I don't like to eat pizza."

"You should," Katie said, poking at her. "Look at how skinny you're getting! Girl, I think a couple pieces of pizza would do you good. Come on, Sara," she said, her voice softening a little. "Just hang out with us again, pleeeze!"

Sara sighed, and looked at her friend's brown eyes. "Alright, alright," she said, laughing. "I'll come, okay?"

"Yes!" Katie's brown hand grabbed Sara's pale one. "Come on, already girl! Nika's waiting in the car!"

"Well, let me grab my bag!" Sara cried, and she threw her backpack over her shoulder before following Katie on a mad dash through the hallways.

All on the car ride to their 'usual' pizza parlor, Sara had second thoughts, though. She couldn't really afford to eat pizza. This would ruin every last bit of hard work. When she went into dance class on Monday…oh God, she'd look like an elephant next to all those skinny little girls.

"Earth to Sara?" Nika said. "Come in?"

"Huh?" Sara said.

"We're here, space cadet," Nika replied. "You coming?"

"Yeah," Sara said. She climbed out of Nika's SUV, thinking hard.

Maybe it was time for some more desperate measures. Tatiana had said it was really nothing…and she'd been so thin. And then Sara could just eat like her friends, and have a good time, and not have to worry about what it was doing to her figure. It would be perfect.

She made her decision.

"What kind of pizza do you want?" Katie asked. "Your usual? Thin crust, veggie?"

Sara laughed. "How about deep dish, pepperoni, and extra cheese?" she said.

Both Nika and Katie's eyes widened. Sara shrugged with a little smile.

"I feel like living dangerously," she said.

"I'm with you, girl!" Katie said.

"Me too," Nika replied.


	4. The Danger Point

Michael stared at himself in the mirror

Michael stared at himself in the mirror. He just wanted to cry.

He was trying so damn hard. He did everything those stupid books recommended; he weighed himself as much as he possibly could, he never sat if he could stand, and never stood if he could walk, he always kept busy, and he tried to keep his calorie consumption low and spaced out…and his stomach still looked huge and round and bloated. In fact, the thinner the rest of his body got, the bigger and more obnoxious his stomach looked. He looked like a circus freak!

"Uncle Mike, I gotta go potty!" he heard LJ call from the hallway.

Michael sighed. Duty, of course. His family. He loved his family, more than anything…but God.

He wrapped the towel around himself. "Alright, LJ," he said, opening the bathroom door. "I'm hurrying."

He walked into the hallway, and LJ stared at him, his eyes wide.

"What?" Michael asked self-consciously, pulling the towel tighter around his hips. "What are you staring at?"

"You're really skinny, Uncle Mike," LJ said.

"No I'm not," Michael said, trying to refuse to feel mocked by a five year old. "I thought you had to go?"

"Oh, yeah," LJ said, disappearing into the bathroom and shutting the door with a bang. Michael disappeared into his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Maybe if he did more sit-ups or something, that would help. It couldn't hurt, anyway.

"God, girl, I can't tell you how glad I am to see that you're eating again," Katie said.

"Huh?" Sara replied, reaching for another slice of pizza. "What do you mean?"

Nika raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows. "You scared us a little, when you were on that weird "let's-live-off-salad-no-dressing-diet-coke kick" you were on before," she said. "It's nice to have Sara back."

"Oh," Sara said. She laughed. "Yeah. Well, everyone knows girl can't live off salad and diet coke alone. It made me crabby!"

"I'll vouch for that!" Katie said. "Now if only I could be as thin as you and eat as much pizza as you do!"

Sara felt the panic, but Katie wasn't being accusatory, just admiring. She shrugged.

"I guess it's just a really good metabolism or something," she said. "You know…I'm just genetically gifted!" She grinned at her friend, who shoved her shoulder.

"You're something, all right," Nika said. She arched one of those eyebrows.

And even hours later, Sara wondered exactly what Nika meant by that. Did she know? Or was it just one of Nika's little comments?

She'd never know…and that drove her crazy.

"Michael? What the hell is this?"

Lincoln sounded angry. Michael flashed through all the things he could have done and came up blank. "What are you talking about?" he asked.

Lincoln came out of his room. In one hand, he had LJ's teddy bear…and in the other, he was holding Michael's scale.

Michael's heart skipped a beat.

"Where'd you get the money for this?" Lincoln asked. He sounded pissed. "You don't have a job."

Michael swallowed. "I saved it," he defended.

"You _saved _ it," Lincoln repeated. "From the money I've been bringing home? How fucking thoughtful of you."

Michael watched Lincoln, who was gripping the scale hard. "Give it to me," he said. "You're gonna break it."

Lincoln looked disgusted, but Michael took advantage of his brother's distraction, and swiped at it. He caught it, hugging the scale to his chest.

"What the fuck, Michael!" Lincoln said. "You bought a scale with my money? That money's not yours to use!"

"I only used a little bit," Michael defended, backing away from his brother. "You didn't even notice! What were you doing in my room anyway?"

"LJ left his teddy bear here, and Lisa called and asked me to find it," Lincoln said, holding up said bear. "But that's not the fucking point. The point is that you stole from me!"

"I didn't steal anything!" Michael yelled back defensively. "You would have let me eat that money, if you'd had bought food with it, right? So I just got this instead! You didn't even know!" His voice kept rising, but he couldn't seem to stop himself.

"What do you need a fucking scale for, Michael?" Lincoln yelled, gesturing wildly with his free hand. He was obviously disgusted. "You a girl? It's ridiculous! You wasted that money on a—"

"What do you care?" Michael yelled back. He could feel tears building up behind his eyes, but he refused to cry. He wasn't going to let stupid Lincoln and his stupid words hurt him; this was more important. "It's mine!"

And then, Lincoln stopped. For a long moment, he just stared at Michael, looking him over as though he hadn't seen him for a long, long time. Michael clutched the scale in front of him, suddenly feeling naked. "Stop it!" he said.

Lincoln shook his head. "I'll be back later," he said, finally, holding up LJ's bear. "I gotta bring this over to Lisa's."

Michael nodded, and Lincoln walked past him and out the door.

Michael sunk to the floor, breathing hard. What had just happened there? Whatever it was, he didn't like it.

Sara knelt over the toilet, tears and snot and spit streaming out of her. Was that the last of it? She prayed it was; the way her heart was thumping, she wasn't sure she could handle any more.

She tried again, and tasted only the sour, awful taste of bile. Empty. Good. She pulled herself off the floor and pulled some toilet paper off the roll to wipe off her face and blow her nose. Disgusting business, this was. But…better than fat. And even if she hadn't lost any more weight doing this, she hadn't gained any either…and she wasn't starving to death all the time like she had been before. It was better, as far as she was concerned. Way better.

She had a system by now, and quickly, she cleaned the toilet, then washed her hands and face. A little spray of air freshener to cover the smell—not that it really helped, it was more psychological than anything.

And then she looked at herself.

She still hated her reflection. Too tall, too wide. Huge shoulders. She turned to the side, and critically studied her waist, her thighs, and her arms. It wasn't fair; she threw up practically everything she ate, and she was still fatter than the other girls in her dance class. What else could she possibly do?

She sighed. More exercise. Exactly what she wanted to be doing at this time of night.

She opened the bathroom door…

…and came face to face with her father. He wrinkled his nose. "Sara, what have you been doing in here?"

She tensed. "Nothing," she said stiffly. Not this again.

He looked at her. She hated that look. She ducked her head, letting her auburn hair cover her face, and pushed past him, towards her room.

He followed her. "I know what you're doing, Sara," he said.

"Leave it alone," she replied. "It's none of your business."

"I thought you wanted to be healthy," her father said to her retreating back. "This isn't healthy, Sara!"

Sara slammed her bedroom door and sunk to the carpet. This wasn't healthy? Hah. What wasn't healthy was how incredibly enormous her thighs were; that wasn't healthy.

She moved into position and began a set of crunches.

He was almost asleep when he heard Lincoln's key in the door.

"Michael?" he heard Lincoln say softly. He didn't answer, not sure if he wanted to talk to his brother right now, not after this afternoon. He wasn't exactly angry at Lincoln…things were just awkward. Again.

"He's probably asleep, Linc," he heard Veronica say.

"Yeah, probably," Lincoln replied.

Michael shut his eyes just as he heard his bedroom door creak open, then shut again.

"He's sleeping," Lincoln said.

"That's probably good," Veronica replied. "Sounds like he needs it." Michael was grateful, and not for the first time, for the arrangement of the apartment; people sitting on the couch could be heard perfectly from his bedroom.

"Something's wrong with him, Vee," he heard Lincoln say.

Michael leaned against the wall, wanting to hear every word. They were talking about him, after all; he had a right.

"What do you mean?" Veronica asked. "You didn't exactly explain what had happened earlier, you know. Something about a scale?"

"Yeah," Lincoln replied. "I mean…well…he's acting weird. He had a fit over that damn scale. He hoarded food money to buy a scale. And why would he? That's just weird."

"A scale?" Veronica echoed. "Like a…a scale to measure out drugs or something?" She sounded confused and concerned.

He heard Lincoln snort. "No. A bathroom scale."

"What?" Now Veronica sounded really confused. "I don't…that really is weird. Now that you mention it, though, I've noticed that he looks kind of sick, too. He's awfully pale and skinny."

Now it was Michael's turn to snort. Skinny? Hardly. He pressed his hands against his belly, which felt huge and bloated.

"You think he's doing…I don't know. Blow makes you awfully skinny like that." Lincoln sounded speculative.

"Have you even tried that?" Veronica asked. "I can't imagine Michael doing something like that. And that's really expensive, too. You said you didn't notice money missing."

"Even drugs wouldn't explain his weirdness over that fucking scale. What the hell is that, Vee? I've never seen anything like that before."

Michael heard a long silence, then a sigh.

"It's adolescence, Linc. Or maybe he's sick with something. Maybe he needs to go to the doctor," Veronica suggested. "It couldn't hurt anything."

"I could get him drug-tested while he's there," Lincoln said. "Shit."

Michael couldn't believe it. They thought he was doing drugs? They were nuts.

At least he wouldn't have to defend himself, though. Doctors could test him for drugs all they wanted; he'd never done anything harder than the occasional Dexatrim or two, and surely he couldn't get in trouble for that.

Sara kept running, hearing her father's breakfast lecture over and over in her head.

"Sara, you have to stop this nonsense. You know better than to do that kind of thing. This is not what I agreed to when I said I'd pay for a personal trainer for you. Cheating? Throwing up your food is cheating, you know."

Sara hadn't known how to defend herself; instead, she'd just felt her face turn red as she poked at her bowl of cereal. For once, she had no appetite at all.

"So, since you broke your half of the bargain, I'm dissolving my half. If you decide to go about this physical fitness thing the right way once again, we can discuss re-hiring your personal trainer, but until then, I will not abide by all this nonsense. What if this got out, Sara? Do you understand the kind of embarrassment this would cause me, as the governor of Chicago? You need to quit this immediately."

Sara had felt the tears lodging in her throat by then. She'd wanted to say something; anything, but she didn't know what she could possibly say to that. So instead, Sara just nodded.

And now, she was at the gym, trying to run away the pain.

It wasn't working. She could feel it, a physical pain in her chest. It was making it hard to breathe.

"Whoa, whoa, Sara!" Nika came over, dressed as usual in her matching jogging shorts and bra, looking adorable and perfect. "You're wheezing! You need to take a break or something!"

Nika hit the cool down button before Sara could protest, and Sara's legs slowed automatically.

"You okay?" Nika asked.

Sara stopped the machine, still breathing heavily. Her chest was aching.

"Yeah, I'm okay," she said. She forced a smile for her friend.

"You sure?" Nika asked. "You look…"

"Terrible, I know," Sara said, self-deprecatingly.

"No," Nika replied. "I was going to say, you look kind of sad." Nika bit her lip. "Come on. Let's go hang out in the steam room for a little bit."

"You haven't gotten your workout yet!" Sara protested. Nika shrugged.

"It's okay," she said. "I'll do it later. Come on."

And before Sara could protest more, Nika grabbed her arm and dragged her off towards the steam room, and away from her painful thoughts.

"I can go in by myself," Michael said again. "I'm not five years old, Linc."

"No," Lincoln replied. "I'm gonna talk to the doctor too." He bit at a hangnail, looking nervous.

Michael knew Lincoln hated doctors. He'd been older, when Mom had died. He remembered every little detail. Not like Michael, who'd been seven. Lincoln had shielded him from ever knowing those details in the first place. But Lincoln had known them all, at fifteen. And he still hated doctors. The very fact that he was going into the doctor's office with Mike, rather than getting Vee to take him, was a big deal.

This morning, Michael had weighed himself. He didn't believe the number; not with his stomach. Surely at that weight, someone who was 5 feet 10 inches tall would be, well…skinny looking. And he still had that damn belly on him. Maybe his scale was broken. It had to be.

"Michael Scofield?" he heard.

"Finally," Michael muttered, getting up quickly. He felt lightheaded, and stopped to catch his balance.

"You alright?" Lincoln asked him as he stood too.

"I'm fine," Michael said. "I still don't get what the big deal is."

He watched anxiously as the nurse weighed him, trying to remind himself that his clothes would add weight, and failing miserably to reassure himself at all. She took his temperature twice, then shook her head and wrote down the number before escorting them to an exam room.

"So, what's going on today?" the nurse asked.

Lincoln looked at Michael with an anxious glance, and Michael rolled his eyes. "Go ahead," he said. "You're the one who thinks I've got some kind of problem, here."

"I don't know," Lincoln replied finally. "But I'm worried, because Michael's…well, he's acting weird. Not like himself. And he looks kind of sick, and he's awfully skinny, and I just…I thought I'd have the doctor talk to him, that's all." Lincoln spread his hands lamely.

Michael couldn't help but feel a little bad for his brother; he knew how much Lincoln hated this kind of thing. The nurse nodded and made a note on the chart before standing. "Alright," she said. "Well, Dr. Page will be in soon."

She left the room.

Lincoln sighed. "What's going on with you, Mike?" he asked.

"Nothing," Michael replied. "I already told you that."

Lincoln kept studying him though, and Michael looked away, uncomfortable with his brother's eyes on him.

A knock on the door made them both startle, but it wasn't the doctor. "I'm going to take some blood," a bubbly, blond haired nurse told him. She asked his name and birth date, which he gave her, then took three different vials full of Michael's blood before disappearing again.

"Vampire," Lincoln remarked.

"No kidding," Michael said, rubbing at his sore arm. "I don't think I have any blood left!"

The brothers waited longer in silence. Michael wondered what they needed all that blood for. Maybe Lincoln had asked them to test him for drugs. He'd be surprised, Michael supposed, when it all came back clean. They wanted to find drugs, they should test Lincoln. He laughed under his breath at the thought.

"What's so funny?" Lincoln asked.

"Nothing," Michael said.

Finally, there was a knock on the door, and the doctor came in. "Mr. Burrows, Michael," Dr. Page greeted them. "How are you today?"

"Fine," Michael said pointedly.

"If you want to step out, I'll examine Michael," Dr. Page said, "and then we can talk, okay?" he said.

Lincoln stepped out of the room, and Michael was glad of that, at least. Dr. Page looked in his throat, listened to his heart and his lungs, then had him lie down on his back. "Lift up your shirt," he said to Michael.

Michael did. He wanted to suck in his stomach, embarrassed that the doctor was going to see all his jiggly fat, but he didn't. The stethoscope was cold against his belly.

The doctor pushed up the leg of his jeans and poked his ankles, which Michael found pretty odd. "Okay," he said. "You can sit up. I have a few questions for you, Michael."

At first, Dr. Page's questions hadn't been too hard. He knew Michael; he'd been his pediatrician for a long time; the state health insurance covered him. It was easy enough to tell him about how school was going, and that kind of thing. But as they'd turned to food, they'd gotten more difficult, and Michael didn't know how to answer them.

"You're biting your lip, Michael," the doctor said.

"No I'm not," he denied.

Dr. Page smiled kindly at him. "I'm going to talk with your brother for a few minutes, Michael," he said, "and then we'll come back in here and talk to you, all right?"

It wasn't, but Michael knew the question was rhetorical, so he didn't answer. As he walked past Michael, he touched his shoulder lightly.

The door shut rather loudly. Michael's brain went into overdrive.

Why was he so curious about what he was eating? And what he thought about how he looked, and his body, and his weight, and all that? Why did he want to know all this stuff?

Michael hadn't told him much. He'd kept his mouth shut, mostly, and hung his head. This was Lincoln's party. Dr. Page could ask Lincoln the questions, if he really wanted the answers!

He pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. What were Lincoln and the doctor even talking about? How fat he was? Maybe the doctor would suggest a diet to put him on or something. That would be good. And an exercise plan too, maybe? Michael rested his chin on his knees and took a deep breath, waiting.

"And down two three four, up two three four…"

Sara felt an awful dizziness and paused in her roll-up, trying to let it pass. Around her, other dancers continued on.

"What's wrong, Miss Tancredi?" her dance instructor asked.

"I'm just a little dizzy," she said softly, embarrassed that she was being singled out for this kind of negative attention. After all this work, Madame should be pointing out her flawless form, not her obvious disorientation! Her chest cramped with embarrassment.

The teacher shook her head. "Get a drink of water," she said. "Then get back in here for some developées. Okay, ladies. Down two three four, up two three four…"

Sara walked out of the rehearsal hall to the water fountain, still feeling incredibly dizzy, and slightly short of breath. She bent over the water fountain and another wave of dizziness hit her hard, accompanied by a feeling like her chest was a tin can being crushed. She forced herself upright, thinking maybe that would help.

Everything went gray around the edges. She gripped the water fountain as even more dizziness and pain made her reel.

"Oh God," Sara whimpered, as the pain continued to build.

She saw a spot of light, like a flash, and then the edges turned from gray to black. She felt herself fall, helplessly, to the ground, with none of a dancer's control.

And then the world went black, and she was gone.

Lincoln followed Dr. Page into his office.

"Mr. Burrows, your brother has a very serious eating disorder," the man said, cutting straight to the chase. "Anorexia Nervosa, and a severe case of it. He needs to be hospitalized for treatment. Immediately."

Lincoln felt like he'd been hit with a two-by-four. "A what?" he said, blinking a few times.

Dr. Page gestured at a chair, and then sat at his desk. "An eating disorder," he repeated. "He's starving himself to death."

"No. No fucking way," Lincoln replied. He took a step towards the doctor. "What do you think you're—"

"He's running the risk of cardiac arrest, Mr. Burrows. His body mass index is much too low. A normal BMI is between 19 and 25, and Michael's is significantly lower than that."

When he told Lincoln the number, Lincoln felt his jaw drop open. He barely heard the doctor continue on.

"He needs to be hospitalized. I had my nurse call the local hospital; they have a program specifically for eating disorder treatment. It's partially medical treatment and partially psychiatric treatment."

"Isn't that…I mean, aren't eating disorders, like, for girls?" Lincoln asked. He had so many questions, but that was the first one that escaped his mouth. "He's a guy. He's not supposed to—"

"Men, women, boys, girls, all ages, all races, all socio-economic ranges. It's become much more prevalent," the doctor said. "And your brother has a severe case, Mr. Burrows. He needs help, now."

Lincoln looked into the doctor's eyes, feeling completely overwhelmed. The doctor's eyes were serious, and concerned.

"Michael's gonna hate me if I do this to him," Lincoln said weakly.

"Better he hates you and he's alive than he loves you and he dies from this," the doctor said.

Lincoln's shoulders tensed. "Dies from this?" he echoed numbly.

"Ten percent of people with anorexia nervosa die from it, Mr. Burrows. Your brother needs help, and he needs it now." The doctor's face was deadly serious.

Finally, Lincoln nodded, and swallowed hard.

"Okay," he said.

The doctor was right. And Lincoln was not going to lose Michael.

"The hospital?" Michael echoed dumbly. He couldn't believe this. "Why?"

Dr. Page smiled at him, but Michael didn't trust that smile. "There are some tests that need to be run," he said. "Nothing to worry about, Michael."

He was lying. Michael could tell. He could tell from the worried crease deepening between Lincoln's eyebrows, and the way he was jamming his hands deep into his pockets. His brother fairly radiated anxiety. There WAS something to worry about. But he didn't know what it was yet, and that made him nervous.

"Stop thinking so damn much, Mike," Lincoln said. "Come on. We have to stop by the apartment quick."

"Why?" Michael asked again.

"To pack you some shit." Lincoln's answer was short and to the point.

"See? You're lying!" Michael heard his voice squeak terribly, in a way he hadn't heard since it had changed, and he jumped from the examining table. The motion made him dizzy, and he lurched sideways. Lincoln grabbed him.

"This," Lincoln said firmly, "is why you have to go to the hospital, Michael. There's something wrong with your heart. Your blood pressure and pulse are way too low. You're fucking killing yourself! And I'm not going to let you die on me!"

He was yelling now. Michael's breath caught, and he leaned against his brother's chest, feeling frightened. Something was wrong with his heart?

He heard Dr. Page clear his throat. "Lincoln, try to stay calm here. His heart doesn't need the extra excitement. Go home, pack him some clothes, things that are comfortable—sweats, tee shirts, that kind of thing—and bring him to the hospital. They've already got a bed for him; I explained that the situation is urgent."

Michael felt Lincoln nod, and he carefully pushed him away from his chest. "You steady?" Lincoln asked.

"Yeah," Michael replied quietly. He couldn't remember ever feeling so frightened in his entire life. What on earth was going on here?

"Okay. Come on. I'm gonna call Vee and have her pick us up, all right?"

Michael nodded, and Lincoln released one of his arms, leaving the other clasped around his bicep to lead him out into the waiting room to use the phone.

This was just supposed to be a doctor's appointment…what had happened?


	5. The Hospital

When she came to, she was on a bed

When she came to, she was on a bed. Around her, she could hear chaos. A man was leaning over her, dressed in scrubs. "What?" she said.

He looked at her. "You're awake," he said. "Oh, good."

The next thing she noticed was that her arm was burning. She grabbed at it, and the man caught her hand. "No, leave it," he said. "You need that."

"It hurts," she said. "My arm's burning."

"Potassium is an irritant. It's going to hurt," he said. "But without it, you could die. Just let it work."

"Potassium?" she said.

"Yours was extremely low when you came in here. Your heart needs it to function correctly so things like this don't happen."

"My heart?" Sara echoed numbly. "What do you mean my heart? I'm a dancer; my heart's in perfect shape!"

"Low potassium and sodium as well as other electrolytes cause heart rhythm abnormalities," said another voice, "and we often see young girls with eating disorders with these kind of abnormalities." A doctor walked in, holding her chart. "Hello, Sara. I'm Dr. Juarenta."

She looked at the doctor standing before her. He was young, although he had to be older than he looked, with dark hair and eyes. "Eating disorders?" she said. The nurse unobtrusively put up the head of her bed, so she could see the doctor without straining herself. "I don't have an eating disorder." She felt her heart start to beat faster, and heard beeping, as the monitor she was attached to picked up the faster rhythm. Shit. She flushed.

"Your father told me that you vomit after meals," the doctor continued, "and looking at your CBC—complete blood count—I would guess that you likely vomit more than that. And if you add in the effects of compulsive over-exercising, it would make sense that your potassium and sodium would dip so low." The doctor looked up from her charts to her face. "Am I correct?"

Even through she was blushing, Sara tried to keep a poker face. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said.

The doctor nodded, almost to himself. "We're going to transfer you up to the telemetry unit—that's the heart unit—and then we'll get you some lunch," he said.

"I'm not hungry," Sara replied immediately. She hadn't had her dance class today, she was practically strapped to the bed from all the monitors and tubes going into her body; there was no way in hell she was going to eat.

"You need the nutrients, Sara," the doctor replied. "I don't understand what the problem is, if you don't have an eating disorder. It should be pretty easy to eat some lunch."

Sara glared at him. She'd been trapped. She clenched her fists, and her IV started to beep. The doctor continued to look at her, one eyebrow raised.

"Fine," she said. "Bring it on."

She didn't have to eat it. There were plenty of places she could get rid of the food without it ever passing her lips. And she would.

"Okay then," the doctor said as the nurse came back into the room to set her IV back in order. "Just lay back and relax, Sara. The transfer should happen in just a few minutes."

He left, pulling the curtain with a swish. Sara leaned back with a sigh.

She was caught, and unless she played this exactly right, this was not going to go well.

They'd gotten him a wheelchair. Michael had protested, but both Lincoln and the nurse had insisted that he sit. So Michael sat, hugging his ribcage. He was terrified. The nurse affixed a name band to his wrist as Lincoln signed form after form.

"Okay," Lincoln said. The nurse smiled at him, and then said, "Alright, folks. Come with me."

The sensation of this woman pushing him down the hallway was strange. Michael was very conscious of his weight in the wheelchair. He couldn't help but wonder if the woman was thinking about how fat he was, that she had to push him. "Are you sure I can't walk?" he asked.

"Hospital policy, dear," she said. They stopped in front of a bank of elevators, and she pushed the UP button. "You have that suitcase under control?" she asked Lincoln.

"It's fine," Lincoln replied. Michael chuckled. As if his brother wouldn't be able to wrangle a suitcase!

The doors opened with a ding, and the woman pushed him inside. Lincoln and the suitcase followed. She pushed the button for the top floor. 8.

The elevator doors opened again, and the nurse pushed him out. Lincoln followed.

There was a short beige hallway that turned into a longer one. Then there was a nurses station connected to a large room that seemed to be an enormous living room filled with people, and three more hallways. Michael tensed, studying the people sitting around. His mind began to categorize them. Male. Female. Teenage. Adult. Child. He saw one little girl, an absolutely tiny black girl, sitting on the end of a couch and forlornly cradling a baby doll. A tube was stuck in her nose, and taped across her cheek, tucked over her ear. Her eyes met his, and his stomach dropped. He'd never seen eyes look that sad on anyone so young before. How old was she? Seven, eight?

"Just relax, Michael," the nurse said. "I need to get your room assignment from the HUC."

Michael didn't know what a HUC was, but he did know that he was nervous. He looked up at Lincoln for reassurance. Unfortunately, Lincoln looked nervous too.

"Linc?" he said.

"It's alright, Mike," Lincoln said. "Just hang on a second."

Suddenly, another nurse came towards him. The nurse who had wheeled him up said, "Goodbye Michael," and then she was gone.

"Hi Michael," she said. "I'm Gina. I'll be your nurse today."

Michael nodded, unsure of what to do. She looked to Lincoln. "And you must be—"

"Lincoln Burrows," Lincoln said. He extended his hand over Michael's shoulder, and he and Gina shook hands. "I'm his brother."

"Well, how about we get you settled into your room, and get a few things taken care of, and then we can explain some things about the unit and your stay here, hmm?" Gina said. She walked behind Michael and undid the brake on his wheelchair, and started to push him towards one of the halls.

Michael sat tensely in the wheelchair as she pushed him to the end of the hallway. It wasn't very long; he had the last room on the left. Room 40, he noticed. She pushed him into a room with two beds. One had a quilt on it, and there was a picture of a teenage girl on the wall next to the bed. The girl was pretty, Michael noticed, a Hispanic girl with a big smile and a dimple.

"I have a roommate?" he asked.

"Indeed," Gina said. "His name is Fernando Sucre. He just came in yesterday, actually. He's 15, the same as you, I believe." She pushed the wheelchair to the other bed. "Lay down on the bed, please."

Michael got up slowly, feeling kind of dizzy again, and lay down on the bed, with its sterile white sheet. "Can you bring me a blanket or something, Linc?" he asked, feeling a little self-conscious about the blankness of his bed. This other guy, Fernando? had a quilt on his bed, so surely it would be okay if Lincoln brought the quilt Mom had made from home.

"Yeah, sure," Lincoln replied. His brother shuffled his feet awkwardly, still holding the suitcase.

"You can put that down," Gina said. "We're going to have to look through everything before Michael can unpack anyway."

"Why?" Michael asked.

"Policy," Gina replied. "The guys should be in in just a second, to get the tube done, and when that's over with, we'll explain everything else, okay?"

"Tube?" Michael echoed. He looked at Lincoln, whose lips were pressed in a thin line. "Lincoln?" He sounded frightened to his own ears.

"It's gonna be okay, Michael," Lincoln replied.

But looking at Lincoln's face only made Michael more afraid.

She was hooked up to all kinds of monitors here too. An aide came in with a tray and set it in front of her. "Your lunch," she said.

"Thanks," Sara said. The woman didn't leave, but instead took a seat in the chair by the side of Sara's bed. Sara blinked at her.

"Uh…what's going on?" she asked.

"I'm supposed to hang out here with you until you finish eating," she said.

"Why?" Sara asked, but she had a sinking feeling that she knew.

"Someone has to be with you while you eat," the aide replied.

"What?" Sara said. "Why?" She could hear that she sounded hysterical, but she couldn't seem to stop herself.

"It's standard operating procedure with EDO's," the aide said.

"EDO's?" Sara echoed.

"Eating disordered patients," the aide explained kindly. She smiled at Sara. Sara felt her brow furrow.

"I don't have an eating disorder!" Sara protested. "This is ridiculous."

"Well, at least you'll have some company for lunch, right?" the aide said cheerfully. "How old are you, anyway honey?"

"Fifteen," Sara replied.

"Where are your parents?" the aide asked.

"Busy," Sara replied shortly. Not that it was any of this woman's business. Her dad had apparently signed treatment consent forms and left. If she stopped to think about it too much, it hurt, so she didn't bother. She shook her head.

The woman nodded, as if she'd said something revealing. "The food here isn't bad," she commented. "You know, for hospital fare."

"I just had a heart attack or something like that," Sara said. "I'm really not hungry."

"Girl's gotta eat," she said. "Here."

She stood, and before Sara realized what she was doing, she'd taken the cover off the tray, revealing a piece of fish, green beans, boiled potatoes, a slice of bread, milk, and pudding. Sara's eyes bugged out before she could stop herself.

"I am not eating that," she said.

"Why not?" the aide asked.

"I'm just not," Sara replied. She leaned back in her bed and shut her eyes.

"You know if you don't eat it, they're going to put a feeding tube in," the aide said.

"A what?" Sara replied.

"A feeding tube," she replied. "They put a tube down your nose. It's not the most comfortable procedure, dear. It's much easier on you to just eat." The aide patted her hand sympathetically.

Sara looked at the food, and then at the aide.

"That's what you think," she said.

Suddenly, another woman bustled in. "Thanks, Michelle," she said gruffly. "I'll take it from here."

The aide stood up. "Good luck, honey," she said, then left. Sara barely had time to register her disappearance.

The new nurse stood in front of her. "You better eat that, Missy," she said, her hands on her enormous hips. "Those feeding tubes hurt like hell."

Sara tried not to flinch, feeling tears build up in her eyes. The name tag on her scrubs said her name was Darlene; Sara couldn't think of a less-darling sort of woman. "You better eat this now, because the doc's written orders that if you don't, you're supposed to get one."

Sara's heart jumped in fear; she saw it on the telemetry monitor.

"Eat. It doesn't get any better when it's stone cold," the nurse snapped, glaring down at her.

So she forced herself to pick up her fork and take a stab at the cold fish, her hand trembling. The nurse's eyes were cold and completely unforgiving.

"Please," she begged, about halfway through the seemingly enormous amount of food piled on her plate. "How much of this do I have to eat?"

"The whole thing," the nurse replied.

Sara had felt tears spring to her eyes. The calories…oh, God. They were going to make her fatter! The heart monitor sped up, and Sara tried to force the tears back.

"You have to finish that," the nurse said again, unnecessarily. There was no mercy in her gaze.

So Sara did, forcing more food into her painfully full stomach. She wanted to purge so badly; surely she could once the nurse had left, right? There was a bathroom. The nurse followed her eyes and shook her head.

"Don't even think about it, little girl," she said sternly. "Your heart monitor will tattle on you, and then you're going to have to get a feeding tube. You just lay there and let that food digest, like a good girl."

The nurse had then, finally, mercifully, left with the empty tray.

So now, alone, Sara's hands touched the skin over her distended stomach. It hurt from being so full, and she was beyond nauseated. Anyone walking by and seeing her profile in the bed, she thought, would surely assume she was pregnant.

A single tear slipped down her cheek, then another. Never in her life had she felt so fat, so disgusting, or so unlovable as she did right now.

"Okay. Okay, Michael, it's in. It's done, alright?" the technician said, fixing the tape to Michael's cheek. "Just relax. It's done."

Lincoln could see Michael's chest heaving; tears were streaming down his younger brother's face. Michael had his left hand in a death grip. Lincoln's other hand was on Michael's shoulder, holding him against the bed. He'd fought like a monster, once he'd figured out what they were doing.

Dr. Page had explained that Michael would need a feeding tube, because his body just wouldn't be capable of consuming enough calories to restore his weight without one. "Even if he was to cooperate fully," Dr. Page had explained, "which isn't likely in the beginning, his body would likely rebel against the sheer volume of food he would have to consume." So Lincoln had known what to expect. But he'd kept Michael in the dark right up until the technicians had shown up to do the procedure.

And Michael had wanted no part of it. His nurse, Gina, had explained what it was for, and Michael had suddenly changed. "I don't need to gain weight!" he'd yelled. "There is no way in hell I'm going to let you pump me full of calories!"

It was that same strangeness, like with the scale, except magnified. Like Michael was possessed or something.

The technicians left, and Gina came back into the room. "Michael?" she asked quietly. "Would you like some ice, for your throat?"

Michael sniffed, and then nodded. She handed him a glass, and Lincoln let go of Michael, realizing he didn't have to restrain his brother any longer. "It'll feel better in a day or two," she said reassuringly.

Michael took a sip from the glass, then glared accusingly at Lincoln. "You brought me here to make me fatter." Michael's voice was hoarse after being irritated between his yelling and the tube, but it was apparent that it wasn't a question. But even if it was, Lincoln wouldn't know what to say.

He stared at his brother. His emaciated brother, whose arms were like twigs. His cheekbones stuck out, and Lincoln could see his collarbones through his tee shirt. Christ. How had he not noticed what Michael was doing to himself?

"Michael, you've been diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa," Gina said, saving Lincoln from having to say a word. "You are medically unstable. Your heart, your pulse, your blood pressure, your weight; none of these things are within a healthy range right now. We're going to help you get better."

Michael's eyes were cold. "I'm not crazy, Lincoln," he said.

"I didn't say you were," Lincoln replied awkwardly.

"I'm in a psych ward—"

"It's not a psych ward," Lincoln said. "It's a hospital. It's not locked or anything." Lincoln didn't know much about psych wards, but Dr. Page had told him this place wasn't a psych ward, and he wanted to make sure Michael knew that too.

"Whatever," Michael said, "With a fucking tube in my nose pumping calories down my throat. Sounds like you think I'm crazy to me." He stared at Lincoln.

Lincoln looked away. Maybe he did, a little bit. Maybe he did think Michael was crazy. He was starving himself to death, and saying he was fat. It seemed crazy to Lincoln.

Michael nodded. "I knew it," he said.

Michael had always been too good at reading Lincoln's face.

Veronica had waited in the car, because Michael had begged her not to come up. She saw Lincoln coming, his shoulders drooping like he was carrying the weight of the world. She put the car into drive, and pulled up so he didn't have to walk as far.

He practically collapsed into her car, and only then did she see his face. He was crying.

She'd only seen him cry once before, at his mother's funeral. So she did the only thing she could do.

She parked the car, and wrapped her arms around Lincoln's huge frame.

"It'll be okay, Linc," she whispered into his ear. "It's gonna be okay."

She kissed the side of his face, and felt his ribs shuddering under her arms as he cried.


	6. The Eighth Floor

"They've got a bed available for you up on the 8th floor," the unfriendly nurse said as she came in

"They've got a bed available for you up on the 8th floor," the unfriendly nurse said as she came in. She began to unhook Sara from various monitors.

"8th floor? What's that?" Sara asked.

"Psych," Charlene replied.

"Psych? As in psychiatric?" Sara replied. She could hear her own surprise.

"Yep," Charlene replied. Sara swore she heard glee in the crazy bitch's voice.

"I'm not going up there," Sara said. "I'm not crazy!" She was vehement.

"Your father signed the paperwork. The transfer is occurring right now, in fact." Charlene sniffed at her. "You don't have a choice."

The heart monitor was disconnected. Sara lurched out of the bed, grabbing at her IV pole so she didn't fall over. "I'm not going!" she yelled.

"Don't make me call security on you, Miss Tancredi!" Charlene said, her voice raising. "Lay back down in that bed, this instant!"

"NO!" Sara cried. "I'm not!"

Suddenly, another person came into the room. "Charlene, please," she heard another voice say. "I'll take care of this, okay? There's a patient in 14 who needs your help."

Charlene glared at the aide who came in, and Sara realized with relief that it was Michelle, the kind aide from earlier. But finally, that evil woman stormed out of the room.

"I'm not going to a psych ward!" Sara cried to this kind faced woman. "Please!'

Michelle sighed. "It's not a psych ward, Sara. I promise. I don't know why Charlene said that. It's an eating disorder unit; it's not locked, and it's not for crazy people."

Sara looked at her warily. "Really?" she asked.

"Really. I promise. Now, sit down, honey," Michelle said kindly. "I'll be right back, okay?" She waited, watching Sara.

Sara sat in the bed, clutching her knees to her chest. She was afraid, but trying desperately not to show it. The aide smiled at her, then turned and left the room.

It was only moments before Michelle came back in, holding a small stack of linens.

"I stole some scrubs," she said. "Until your parents can bring your clothes, so you don't have to run around half-naked." She smiled sympathetically at Sara.

Sara was grateful for this woman, who still looked at her as though she was a real person. She still looked at her as if she was a fifteen year old girl, and not a faceless 'patient' to be 'fixed'.

"Thank you," Sara whispered.

"Of course, dear," Michelle replied. "We're going to have to work around that IV, of course, but I think a pair of scissors and a needle and thread can fix that up pretty quick. You shouldn't have to have that in for too much longer anyway."

And Sara let Michelle help her dress and get into the wheelchair. "Ready?" Michelle asked her.

"I guess," Sara replied uncertainly.

"It's not so bad, dear," Michelle said. "It'll be okay. I promise." She gently put her hand on Sara's shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. Sara relished that slight bit of human contact; that feeling that someone, even a woman who she didn't really know from Adam, cared about her.

"Seriously? I can't use the bathroom by myself?" Michael said. "You've got to be kidding me!" He sat on the edge of his bed, tapping his legs anxiously.

"Sorry, Michael," Gina said. "Until you earn your orange wristband, you're supervised pretty much all the time. It's just the rules. And please stop moving like that."

Michael froze, then looked at her. "I can't tap my legs?" he asked.

"No exercise on the unit," she said.

"That's hardly exercise," he argued. "It burns like half a calorie."

"It's the rules, Michael," Gina said.

Michael had a feeling he was going to hate the rules. Gina handed him a black binder with his name written on a small piece of tape in the corner.

"You can read them all in there," she said. "Come on. You have to go into the dayroom now."

He stood reluctantly, then froze. "Wait a second," he said. "This thing…" He flicked at the tube hanging out of his nose.

"Yes?" Gina said.

He felt his face flush. He didn't want to go out there with this tube hanging out of his nose like the world's longest booger. "I…"

"You aren't the only one with an NG tube, Michael," Gina said. "Don't worry about it so much. Come on."

She herded him out of his room and down the hallway, into the main room. "This is the dayroom," she said. "Have a seat."

Gina went off behind a large desk area where there seemed to be a lot of nurses sitting, doing paperwork or something. Michael kept standing there, looking for a place to sit. He saw three other males, and a bunch of women and girls, including that one little girl with the tube in her nose and the baby doll, but didn't immediately see a place to sit.

"Hey," he heard from his right. "Need a place to sit?"

That voice was slightly accented and around his age. He looked over to see the other teenaged male, a Puerto Rican kid with a nearly shaved head and a smile. Relieved, he made his way over to him.

"Hi," Michael said. "I'm Michael."

"Sucre," the teenager said.

"Fernando Sucre?" Michael said.

"Si," the teen replied, sounding a little wary. "Why?"

"Uh…" Michael said. "I'm your new roommate, I guess."

"Oh," he said, grinning again.

Michael stuck out his hand; Sucre put his out too. Somehow a handshake didn't actually materialize; there was an awkward attempt at a handclasp. The other teenager shrugged and said, "Eh, whatever. Might as well sit. Ain't nothin' else to do around here."

Michael sat down. "So you go by Sucre?" he asked, to be sure. "Not Fernando?"

"Only mi novia calls me Fernando," Sucre said with a laugh. "And my mom."

Michael snorted. "Sucre it is."

"Hey," he heard an older male voice say. "New admit."

Michael's eyes turned with everyone else's to see another nurse pushing a wheelchair down the hallway. This wheelchair held a teenage girl, about his age, with auburn hair. She stared at her lap, her face red. Her arm was hooked up to an IV. She was thin and graceful-looking, even crunched awkwardly into the wheelchair.

"She's pretty," Michael heard. His head turned to the voice; that little girl holding the baby doll had spoken.

"Yeah," Michael agreed without thinking. He heard Sucre chuckle. The little girl smiled at him, but her eyes were still sad.

"Okay, Sara," he heard one of the nurses say. "I'll take you to your room."

And then the nurse was pushing her down one of the hallways, and Michael couldn't see her anymore.

"Who's my roommate?" Sara asked, looking at the other bed. There was a pink comforter on it, and a big stuffed dog. It looked like it belonged to a five year old.

"Her name is Didi," her nurse replied. "She's a bit younger than you, but this was our last available bed."

"How much younger than me?" Sara asked. The last thing she needed was a crazy thirteen year old roommate. She'd go nuts. She mentally rolled her eyes. Too late.

"She's nine," the nurse, Ruth, replied.

Sara's jaw dropped. Nine? "Holy shit," she said.

Ruth looked at her. "You can't go talking like that around her, Sara," she said. "We don't allow that kind of language on the unit anyway."

"Sorry," Sara replied. "I just…nine. Jeez."

"She's a smart little girl," Ruth said. "You might be surprised at how well you get along. Now. Let me explain the rules."

"Wait…what are you doing here?" Michael asked Sucre.

Sucre snorted. "I'm on vacation. What'ddya think?"

Michael narrowed his eyes, studying the guy in front of him. "This place is supposed to be for people with eating disorders, though, right?"

"Yeah," Sucre said. "So?"

"Well…why are there guys here, then? There's like four of us here…but the book I read said that eating disorders happen to teenage girls."

Sucre said something quickly under his breath in Spanish that Michael had no hope of catching, besides the first, "mother of God." He looked Michael in the eyes. "Are you serious?" he asked, returning to English.

"Yeah," Michael said.

Sucre shook his head. "Man…the nurses are gonna love you. Look around you, man. See Charles over there?" He gestured at an older man, who was scrawny and frail-looking, like he belonged in a nursing home or something. "He's been starving himself like mad since his daughter died, and no one can get him to stop. It ain't just girls, man. Look at you."

Michael crossed his arms defensively over his chest. "I don't have a problem," he said, "much less an…an eating disorder."

Sucre raised his eyebrows. "Oh-kay," he said, drawing it out slowly. "Well, whatever man."

Michael just blinked a couple times, not sure what to make of Sucre's response.

Sara sunk down into one of the couches, next to a tiny little girl with a tube in her nose and a baby doll in her arms. Ruth had pointed the girl out to her. "That's Didi, your roommate," she'd said. So Sara had decided to try to say hi.

The little girl looked up at her shyly. "Hi," she said solemnly. Her eyes were huge in her tiny face, the bones prominent. She didn't look anywhere near nine years old to Sara's eyes; if she'd seen her on the street, she might have guessed six or seven.

"Hi," Sara replied. "I'm Sara. I think I'm your new roommate."

"Oh," Didi replied. She didn't quite smile, but the corners of her lips softened upwards a little bit. "How old are you?"

"Fifteen," Sara replied.

"I'm nine," Didi replied. "Almost ten." She looked down in her lap at her doll.

"That's cool," Sara said, not sure what else to say to this girl. What, after all, would she have in common with a nine year old? Well…she second-thought that. "How long have you been here, Didi?"

"Almost two weeks," Didi said quietly. "I hate it." She looked up at Sara again.

Sara grimaced. "That bad?" she asked.

Didi winced a little bit, then looked around furtively for a moment, before leaning closer to Sara. She whispered, "They're nice enough…but I just want to go home."

Sara nodded. That, she could understand completely. She looked out into the room around her, studying the bodies around her. Females and males, their bodies ranging from completely normal looking to painfully thin. She grimaced, feeling fat again amongst such skinny people. Her eyes skimmed over the group.

A pair of eyes locked into hers. They were beautiful; a deep turquoise. She didn't…couldn't…look away.

His body was wasted and painfully thin, and he had a tube in his nose too, like Didi…but those eyes. Those eyes were beautiful. She blinked, then flushed, realizing she was staring, and looked away.

"Who's that?" she asked Didi.

"Who?" the little girl replied.

"That guy over there," Sara replied. "The…the really thin one. With the blue eyes."

Didi glanced over, then shrugged. "I don't know," she replied. "He just came right before you did."

Suddenly, there was a crackling noise, and a PA system sprang to life. "It's time for snack. Time for snack. Roll up your sleeves and remove your sweatshirts."

"Snack?" Sara asked Didi, who was sighing as she pulled her hooded sweatshirt over her head.

"Uh huh," Didi said.

"But I just ate!" Sara protested. Someone else snorted.

"That's the drill around here, girl," she heard someone mutter as they walked past her.

"Come on," Didi said, standing up. "I'll show you where to go."

So reluctantly, Sara followed the tiny girl across the dayroom and into a smaller room off to the side that served as the dining area.

The tables were clear; made of plexiglass. Michael shook his head.

"You have to be kidding me," he said.

"Find your name, Michael," a man he didn't recognize said. His name tag said Bob. "Your snack is in front of it."

The others seemed to know how this worked. They found their names and sat down quickly. A time was written on a whiteboard above Bob. "You've got fifteen minutes, Michael, Sara," he said, gesturing at it.

"For what?" Michael asked.

"To eat your snack," Bob said.

Michael just stood there, staring at him. He had to be kidding, right? This was the most absurd thing he'd ever seen in his entire life.

"Sit down, please," Bob said.

Michael finally sat. A piece of paper with his name on it sat on the table, along with a package of graham crackers and a carton of milk.

He was not going to do this. They could force him to stay here, and they could shove a tube down his throat, but they could not make him eat. He was not going to get fat, damn it. He'd worked so hard, and he still had a huge stomach. They were not going to make it bigger. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the food.

Across the table, he saw that little girl doing the same thing. He noticed that her snack was different than his; bigger. Her big brown eyes met his.

She needed to eat, he thought. He'd never seen such a skinny little kid, except in those pictures you see where they're trying to get you to send your money to feed starving babies in foreign countries.

The tables were quiet; he heard a smattering of conversation here and there, but mostly, he heard the sounds of chewing and swallowing, even over the soft instrumental music they played in the background. It was weird; like trying to eat in an elevator or something. Or trying not to eat, maybe…he wasn't sure.

"What's your name?"

He wasn't sure he'd actually heard her speak. "Huh?" he said intelligently.

"What's your name?" the little girl across from him asked. She leaned forward, putting her elbows on the clear table and resting her chin in her hands.

"I'm Michael," he said. "What about you?"

"I'm Didi," she replied. "I'm nine. How about you?"

Nine. Jeez. His stomach cramped. That book hadn't said anything about nine year old kids starving themselves…nine was only four years older than LJ. He swallowed.

"Uh…I'm fifteen," he replied.

Didi smiled, like he'd said something really great, although he couldn't figure out what that would have been. She looked a lot more like a little kid should, though, when she smiled—happier.

"Time's up!" he heard from the head of the table. The man stood up, and started to look at people's places. Then they'd stand up and go.

When he came to Michael's place, he said, "Wait a minute," and he took the food from in front of Michael. Michael was grateful. He started to stand, and Bob put his hand on Michael's shoulder.

"Stay here, Michael," he said.

"Why?" Michael asked.

"Replacement," Didi said flatly with a sigh.

"Uh huh," Bob replied. He moved on to the person next to Michael.

"What's a replacement?" Michael asked, looking to Didi since she was the only one who'd answered a question yet, besides Sucre, whose name had been at another table.

Didi just rolled her eyes. "It's gross," she said.

"Didi," another nurse said warningly as Bob came around to inspect Didi's place. Didi shrugged.

"You'll see," she said.

Sara stared at the cup they'd placed in front of her. There was no way she was going to drink this…whatever it was. It looked like butterscotch pudding-sludge, and considering that the nurse had called it Two-Cal, she was pretty sure it wasn't low-fat. "I'm not drinking this," she said.

"You have to drink it, Sara. It's the rules," one of the nurses said. "If you want, you can have a straw."

Sara looked around the room. She wasn't the only one with a cup of the sludge in front of her. Her roommate had a cup; bigger than hers, she noticed, and so did that guy she'd seen earlier, with the pretty eyes. All she could see now was his back as he stared down his own cup, the ridges of his spine apparent through his thin tee shirt.

Didi was drinking it through a straw, her nose crinkled up like it tasted really bad. Sara could hear the slurping noise as the straw sucked up air. "I finished it," the little girl whispered, holding up the cup. The nurse walked over to her and inspected it before nodding and sending Didi out of the dining room.

"And if I won't?" Sara asked.

"Sara, you don't want to have to do this the hard way. You don't really need an NG tube, and I would hate to have to give you one because you refused to drink your replacements and we had to supplement you like that."

"Is that a threat?" Sara replied hotly.

"No, Sara," the nurse said. "It's just the way things are." She sighed. "Do you want a straw? It's easier that way."

Suddenly, the guy turned around in his chair, and those eyes met hers again. "You don't want one of these," he said, and he gestured at the tube. Then his face flushed red, and he turned back around, his shoulders hunching slightly.

Sara sighed, and looked down at the cup again for a long moment. "Fine," she said finally. "Give me the damn straw."

"I'm not drinking it," Michael said finally. "Just do it however you do it, but I'm not drinking that shit." He crossed his arms over his chest.

Gina sighed. "All right, Michael," she said. "You can go back out to the dayroom, now."

Michael stood up and walked back out to the dayroom, and took his seat next to Sucre again.

"You okay, man?" Sucre asked.

"Yeah," Michael said. He sighed. "This place sucks."

"No shit," Sucre replied. "We got a whole hour of nothing before the tutor gets here. You want me to introduce you around?"

"Sure," Michael said. Then he scoffed. "Is that allowed, or does that expend too much energy?"

"It's a small room," Sucre replied. "Come on."

Sucre stood up, and Michael followed him. He plopped down into a chair where two guys were playing cards. Both were older.

"Michael, this is Charles and Theodore," Sucre said.

"T-Bag," the second man drawled in a southern accent. "Pleased to meet you." He held out his hand for Michael to shake; Michael shook it.

"Seriously?" Michael asked the extremely thin man in front of him. "Do you have a real name?"

"That's my real name," the man replied. "No…just kidding. Got the nickname from living off of Earl Grey and Sweet 'n' Low."

Charles, who was dealing cards, laughed. "Sure you did," he said. "I'll tell John you said that, too."

"Oh, shut up," T-Bag said, but he didn't seem overly irritated. "I don't tell your Ann everything you say."

"Okay, fellas. I'll let you get back to your card game," Sucre said, leaving the two men to argue with each other. "Come on, Michael."

"I found out his name," Didi said when Sara sat back down at her spot on the couch.

"What?" Sara said. She was distracted, trying to decide exactly how many calories had been in that disgusting drink they'd just forced into her. "Whose name?"

"That boy!" Didi said. "You wanted to know his name, right?"

Sara's eyes widened. "What's his name?" she asked.

Didi grinned. "It's Michael," she said, sounding like a little conspirator. "And I have better news for you."

"What's that?" Sara asked, looking at the girl who seemed very pleased with herself.

"He's fifteen too, just like you."

Sara felt her mouth drop open. "Are you trying to play matchmaker or something?" she asked.

The little girl just giggled a little, then picked up her doll. "Just thought you'd want to know," she replied.


	7. The Meeting

Michael's head was reeling with all these names—he only remembered a few

Michael's head was reeling with all these names—he only remembered a few. He remembered Sophia, only because she and Sucre had exchanged a little bit of conversation in rapid-fire Spanish before one of the nurses had reprimanded them, also in Spanish, and Sophia had flushed.

"I forget she speaks Spanish," she said of the nurse, whose name was Christina. "We like to talk shop, but we can't when she's here."

"Shop?" Michael repeated.

"You know? Calories and stuff?" Sophia replied.

"He's new," Sucre said. "He says he doesn't have an eating disorder."

Sophia nodded, wringing her thin, delicate hands. "I remember that," she replied. "You'll come around."

And he remembered Gretchen, because Sucre hadn't introduced him to her; merely pointed her out.

"She's such a bitch," he said. "Watch out for her, man. She's loco like you've never seen."

Gretchen was a little older than them; Michael would guess maybe nineteen or twenty. "Yeah, okay," he said.

"Sit down Sucre, Michael," Ruth said. "Come on guys. You know the rules Sucre."

"Yes ma'am," Sucre said, plopping into a chair. Reluctantly, Michael sat down too.

"And this," Sucre said, "is Didi," and he pointed at the tiny girl on the couch. "She's a little sweetheart."

The little girl was cradling her baby doll; she smiled at Sucre. "Hi Michael," she said.

"We met at snack," Michael explained to Sucre.

"And I don't know you. I'm Sucre," he said, introducing himself to the beautiful girl with auburn hair who sat on the couch next to Didi.

"I'm Sara," the girl said shyly. She pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear, and her eyes connected with Michael's again.

"Michael," he replied. She had beautiful eyes; big and brown and expressive.

"Nice to meet you," Sara said, and then she laughed, sounding a little self-conscious. "Even considering the um…less than ideal circumstances."

"Nice to meet you," Michael replied, feeling a little tongue-tied.

They stared at each other for a long moment, and there was an awkward silence. Michael wished desperately for something clever to say, but all he could think of was stupid remarks, and so he stayed silent.

Finally, the silence was broken by Didi. "The tutor's here," she said.

The school hadn't sent anything yet, so Sara sat in the corner, mentally calculating. She had no idea what that Two-Cal stuff was made of, or how much they'd given her…but the stuff she'd been supposed to eat hadn't been too high in calories. Was the replacement a punishment? Did they give her it to make her fat for not eating her food?

"Hey," a soft voice said, interrupting the panic that was building inside of her. "Can I sit here?"

She looked up to see him standing over her, the scarecrow with the beautiful eyes. Michael. "Sure," Sara replied, nodding at the chair next to her. "Have a seat."

Michael folded his body neatly into the chair; watching him move amazed her. As a dancer, she saw interesting movement all the time, but this boy was a study of it. He crossed his knees, lotus-like, even in the narrow chair. "I don't have any homework or anything yet," he said, and Sara realized he was explaining. "Probably won't for awhile; my school's not really quick on the uptake. Too many students; hopefully Linc'll let them know I need it before I get too far behind."

"I don't either," Sara said. "Have any homework, I mean. Who's Linc?"

"My brother," Michael replied. "I live with him."

Those eyes met Sara's, and there was a bit of a challenge in them. She met them dead on. Michael looked away first.

"He'll probably forget, for awhile," he said. "He's got to figure out what to do about LJ, and all that stuff…shit."

"LJ?" Sara asked.

"My nephew," Michael said. Then he looked at her. "How about you? What's your family like?"

"I live with my dad," she said. "Mom lives in California, I think. What about your parents?"

"My dad's gone, and my mom's dead," Michael said after a moment, looking past Sara's shoulder. Sara bit her lip, thinking, Shit. Good going, Tancredi.

"Sorry," she said quietly.

"You didn't know," Michael said. "It was a long time ago. It's why I live with Linc."

"How old's your brother?" she asked.

"Twenty-three," Michael replied. "He's pretty cool, for a brother. I wish he'd fix this whole mistake though, so I could go home and help out like I'm supposed to. No offense to Linc or anything, but I don't think he can really handle LJ all on his own."

"What whole mistake?" Sara asked.

"Being up here," Michael replied. "I don't have a fucking eating disorder."

Sara blinked, and looked at the boy sitting in front of her. She'd never seen someone so incredibly thin before, like every bone was trying to break through his skin.

"I said I didn't have one," Sara said after a long moment, "but they knew, you know? Even though I said I didn't; they looked at all those labs and stuff, and they knew, even when I told them I didn't."

Michael looked at her, then closed his eyes momentarily, his eyelashes casting long shadows against bony cheeks. They snapped open again suddenly.

"So, you're saying that I've got an eating disorder?" Michael asked.

Sara took a breath. "I'm saying, maybe they know more about it than we do?"

"I read about it, though…I went to the library and stuff." Michael started to tap his fingers anxiously against his scrawny thighs. "The book I read? It said that eating disorders happen to white teenage girls. So obviously—"

"So obviously, you were reading a really old book or something," Sara interrupted. "Look around you, Michael! How many of the people here are white teenage girls?"

"You are," Michael said obviously.

"Yeah," Sara said. "But you and Sucre and those two older guys, and Didi and Sophia and all those ladies who are in their twenties, thirties, forties? Open your eyes, Michael." Look at yourself, she wanted to say. She wanted to point out his wrist, which was currently thinner than hers; she knew if he was the weight he was supposed to be, he would be stronger than she was. But she didn't say those things.

"I don't want to be here," Michael said, leaning back in the chair. "And I don't want to have a…a fucking tube in my nose, and I don't want to get fatter, and this is the stupidest thing I've ever seen in my life."

Well, that at least, Sara could agree with. "I know what you mean," she said with a sigh, and she leaned back too.

From the other side of the dayroom, where the tutor was helping students with their studies, she saw Didi smile at her.

"Look," Vee said. "You can visit him tonight."

"Huh?" Lincoln said from his spot on her couch. He hadn't moved since he'd landed there.

"This brochure says you can visit him tonight. Are you going to?"

"Uh…" Lincoln replied. "I don't know. LJ…"

"You can bring LJ too," Veronica said. "And you can bring the quilt he asked for, too. Come on, Linc. I know he'll want to see you; this day will have been hard for him."

"No shit," Lincoln replied. "It was fucking hard for me."

"Exactly," Veronica replied. "And you had me. He didn't have anyone. Come on. Go visit him tonight, make sure he's okay."

Lincoln sighed and held out his arm. Veronica sat down at his side, curling into it. "What is it, Linc?" she whispered into his ear.

The silence was long, but finally, Lincoln's shoulders sank and he started to talk.

"He's sick, Vee," he said. "I didn't even fucking notice. How did I not notice that he was killing himself, right in front of my eyes? I looked at him this afternoon, for the first time in a long time, and my God! He's bones. But he couldn'ta just got like that; so how did I not notice he was fucking starving himself to death?"

"Teenage boys get skinny, Linc—" Veronica tried to comfort, even as she felt the tears building behind her eyes.

"No. Not like that, they don't," Lincoln said. "And I was so fucking busy trying to pay the bills I didn't even notice that Michael was busy trying to disappear!" Lincoln was breathing hard. "How'd I miss it, Vee?"

Vee bit her lip, feeling the tears spill over. "I missed it too, Linc," she whispered. "So if you're guilty…so am I."

Lincoln's hands clutched her tightly, and she clung back.

"We'll visit him tonight," Lincoln said finally, and Veronica nodded into his shoulder.

The P.A. system crackled to life again. "It's time to use the restrooms; time to use the restrooms," a male voice announced over the intercoms. "Take the oppourtunity."

"That's subtle," Sara said. She stretched her hands over her head. "Where are the bathrooms, even?"

Michael shrugged. He hadn't noticed any bathrooms anywhere. He saw Sucre start down the hallway towards their room though, and looked at Sara. "Follow the leader, maybe?" he suggested. Didi was heading down that hallway too.

"Great," Sara said. "You know, I wish someone would explain this stuff to me." She stood up.

Michael stood too, trying not to lurch as another spell of dizziness came over him. "I don't think they explain much around here," he said. "I think you're supposed to catch it as you go along."

"That's bullshit," Sara muttered, and then she too headed down off into the hallway.

Michael followed.

The hallway was lined with teenagers and Didi, standing in the doorways. Michael wandered down to the end, where Sucre stood, and leaned against the other doorpost.

"This looks like something from a prison movie," Michael said. "What do they do? Count us?"

Sucre laughed. "No. They gotta watch. It's sick, ese."

Suddenly, a pair of nurses clad in scrubs came down the hallway, a male and a female. Sucre muttered something under his breath in Spanish as people on both sides of the hallway's hands shot into the air, displaying wrists clad in orange bracelets.

"Orange bracelets?" the male asked in a drawling voice.

"What'd you say?" Michael asked Sucre as the nurses disappeared into rooms and reappeared into the hallways, only to disappear into next.

"That aide, man? Name's Brad Bellick. He's…he's an asshole, man. No privacy, with him. Not fun, trust me. I like Louis better."

"What are they doing?" Michael asked, tucking that piece of information in his brain.

"Unlocking bathrooms, for the ones with orange bracelets," Sucre said. "'Cause once you got an orange bracelet, you get to shake hands with the president without an audience. Or so they tell me." Sucre held up his own, un-braceleted wrist. "I haven't earned one yet."

"Well, how do you earn one?" Michael asked.

Sucre snorted. "Do everything they tell you man. Eat. Sit around. Do all their groups; you missed most of 'em today. No replacements, for like three whole days."

Michael blinked at Sucre. "I'm never gonna have one of those bracelets," he said flatly.

Sucre said something in Spanish, and then switched to English. "You never know."

Sara left her room, her face still flushed. How embarrassing, having to use the bathroom in front of another person! She officially hated this place; she wanted out. Now.

She plopped down on the couch she'd left before in the dayroom, crossing her arms over her chest. Didi sat down next to her, still cradling her doll in her arms.

"Sara?" the girl asked timidly.

"Yeah?" Sara replied, still in her own thoughts.

"It gets better, you know," Didi said.

Sara turned towards the younger girl. "You said you wanted to go home," Sara replied.

"I do," Didi said. "But…well, once you get your orange bracelet, this place is a little better. I promise." The girl was chewing on her lips, looking at her anxiously.

"Why do you care?" Sara asked.

Didi blinked. "You just…you look sad."

Sara sighed. That statement, out of all the possible ones she could consider, was the only one she hadn't been expecting…and the only one capable of disarming her.

"So…how do I get one of those bracelets, then?"

The P.A. crackled to life again. "Good evening, everyone. It's time for dinner. Sweatshirts off, and sleeves up; we'll meet you in the dining room."

Michael looked at Sucre. "They have to be kidding," he said. "Didn't we just do this two hours ago?"

"Yeah," Sucre said, "but they ain't kidding, man. Come on."

Michael sighed. "What happens after dinner?" he asked.

Sucre grinned. "After dinner? That's visiting hours."


	8. The Visiting Hours

Sucre was the first one out of the dining room

Sucre was the first one out of the dining room. He'd been seated next to Michael, and all during dinner, he'd talked about a girl. Maricruz.

"My mom said she'd pick her up," Sucre had said, as he carefully picked mushrooms out of the casserole sitting in front of him. "I can't wait to see my girl, man." He put a forkful of the food in his mouth.

Michael watched him, feeling kind of amazed. Sucre's girlfriend was coming here? To the—the psych ward? Or whatever it was, to see him. "She knows you're here?" Michael asked.

"Yeah," Sucre said. "Mi mama has a big mouth. She told her." He picked another mushroom out of his casserole. "So Maricruz knows."

"Sucre, you know you have to eat those or be replaced," one of the nurses—Michael couldn't remember his name—said from the head of the table where he watched.

"Si, si,' Sucre said. "Yo se." He picked out two more mushrooms and set them on the side of his plate.

"And she's okay with that?" Michael asked, astounded.

Sucre shrugged. "Ah. It's not like what she'd want, obviously…but it's better than visiting me in juvie or something, no?"

Well, Michael had to admit that was true. He nodded, watching Sucre line up more mushrooms.

"Shit. They just put all the mushrooms on my plate?" Sucre muttered. "I hate these damn things."

"So don't eat them," Michael said quietly.

"Have to," Sucre said. "Remember? The orange bracelet?"

Michael raised his eyebrows. "You even have to eat stuff you don't like?" he said, more loudly than he intended.

"Michael, no food talk at the table," the nurse said. Michael sighed, and stared at his untouched plate. His stomach rumbled, but he thought about that tube in his nose, and what it was for…he couldn't afford to eat, not on top of all the stuff they were going to pump down that tube. He sighed, and looked away.

Suddenly, Sucre popped all the mushrooms in his mouth at once, then took a huge swig of water. He made a face and swallowed hard.

"Ugh," he said. "That's done, at least."

"What did you do?" Michael asked, looking sideways at Sucre. Sucre grinned at him.

"Took 'em like pills, man," he said. "Don't have to taste them that way."

Michael sat in the dining room over a cup of that stupid replacement and watched Sucre greet an older woman, who Michael guessed was his mother, kissing her cheek. Then, the teenage girl from the photograph above his bed stepped forward, and Sucre grabbed her in a long hug. They were a good couple; they seemed to fit together well. The girl—Maricruz—smiled hugely at Sucre, and her hand touched his face. It was a sweet gesture.

Then a nurse came over; Michael could practically hear her scolding Sucre and his visitors to sit down. He hoped they would have a good time visiting.

Sighing, he looked at the nurse at the head of the table. "I'm not drinking this. You know I'm not."

Theodore saw John walk in as he settled himself down on the couch. His partner walked over to him, wrinkles of worry obvious on his face.

"How are you doing, Teddy?" John asked, sitting down next to him. He settled his arm over his beloved's thin shoulders, and felt him relax slightly.

"I'm fine," Theodore drawled. "Full as a balloon about to pop, but I'm doing fine. Charles and I keep fine company, playing chess all day like two old men in the park."

"Except you're not old yet," John said.

"I feel old, John," Theodore replied. "I'm so tired of being here. Haven't I gained enough to go home? What did the doctors say?"

"Patience," John replied. "Patience."

"Mmm…I'm so sick of having patience," Theodore said. "I want out now."

John sighed and squeezed his shoulders. "I know," he replied. "I know."

Didi heard her father's voice. "Where's my girl?"

"Daddy!" she cried. She stood up, and he ran to her, scooping her up in his arms.

"Hi, baby," he said.

Kaycee wasn't far behind Ben, and she smiled at her daughter, held in her father's arms. "How are you doing, honey?" she asked.

"I'm okay, Mommy," Didi replied.

Ben kissed her forehead. "Let's find a place to sit," he said. His daughter's slight frame was like nothing in his arms, but he knew if he stood around with her for too long, one of the nurses would request he and Kaycee sat down.

He moved Didi to his other arm and sat down at a table. Kaycee followed his lead, sitting next to him.

Suddenly, Didi jumped up. Ben pretended to be offended.

"What? You think you're too old to sit on your daddy's lap anymore?" he teased.

Didi looked up at him, and her eyes were serious. "I'm gaining weight," she whispered. "I'm too big to sit on your lap anymore."

Benjamin Franklin felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. He looked at his still-underweight daughter, and felt tears rising behind his eyes.

"Oh, baby," he said, reaching for her. "Come here. You'll never, ever be too big to sit on my lap. I promise."

And after Didi had settled back in his lap, he looked over her head at Kaycee, and saw the tears in her eyes too.

Their daughter still had so far to go.

Charles' wife settled herself heavily in the chair across from him. "How are you feeling, Charles?" she asked.

"I'm fine, Ann," he replied, like he always did. He reached for her hand; his trembled slightly. "How are you?"

"I miss you," she said. Then, something seemed to burst, and a rush of words spewed from her mouth. "Please honey. Will you start eating, and stop this? The insurance is going to run out soon, and we don't have the money to pay for this treatment out of pocket. Our daughter wouldn't want—"

Charles drew his hand back. "Don't," he said harshly, but already, the guilt was flowing over him. "Don't tell me what my baby would want, Ann. She's gone."

"Charles—"

"Please. Just don't."

Sucre sat next to Maricruz, clutching her small hand in his bigger one. His mother sat across from them, watching with a worried look on her face.

"Do you have a roommate?" she asked in Spanish.

"Yes, Mama," Sucre replied.

"Is he nice? Who is he? They didn't put you in with some kind of crazy—"

"No, Mama," Sucre said. "He's nice. His name's Michael; he's sitting over there. The one with the tube in his nose?" Sucre gestured over to Michael, who was still staring at a cup of replacement and arguing with a nurse.

"He's a skeleton!" his mother said. Maricruz gasped softly.

"He's so thin!" she said.

"Yeah, I know," Sucre said. "But he's a nice guy."

"Don't you go doing that, Fernando," his mother said. "I couldn't stand it if you did that to yourself, do you hear me?" She leaned forward and grabbed his face in both hands.

"Yes, Mama," he replied.

"So, how are you doing, then?" his mother asked. "Are you getting better yet? You're going to stop doing this, yes?"

Sucre sighed. He felt Maricruz squeeze his hand in silent support.

"James!" Sophia said. "You came!"

"Of course I came," James said, hugging his fragile girlfriend. She sat down next to him and he put his arm around her. "How are you doing?"

Sophia nodded, her lips pressed together tightly. "They're making me fat, James."

"They're not making you fat, Sophia," James said. They always had this argument, every time he came. "I promise you, they aren't."

"You always say that," she said. "But I can see my reflection in the mirror, James. You're lying. They're making me fat."

He looked at his girlfriend's delicate frame and shook his hands. "It's not true," he said, despairingly.

"I can't trust that," she said.

He sighed. They sat in silence, thinking.

Michael left the dining room finally…and immediately saw Lincoln's back and arms, where LJ was settled.

He'd come to visit? Michael hadn't expected that. "Linc?" he said.

Lincoln turned, and when he did, Michael saw Veronica, whose smaller form had been hidden behind Lincoln's. He winced and threw his hand up to cover his nose, as if she wouldn't be able to see the tube hanging out that way. Yeah, right

"Uncle Mike!" LJ cried. "Hi!"

Oh god. And his nephew was seeing him like this…for a moment, Michael wished he could just sink into the floor and die. LJ was staring curiously. He heard him say, "Daddy? What's that?" to Lincoln, and Michael cringed again.

But Veronica's eyes only looked at his. "Hi, Michael," she said, in her way. He sighed and moved his hands down. She knew why he was here; she knew they were making him fat. It wasn't like he could hide the tube in his nose with his hands.

"Hi Veronica," he said. "Hey Linc. Hi buddy."

"We were just asking the nurse if we could go down to your room," Veronica said. Michael shook his head.

"They won't let us," he said. "Because I don't have an orange bracelet. And I just ate."

"Actually," Veronica said, "They said we could. Lincoln brought your quilt."

Only then did Michael notice that Veronica was hugging a quilt in her arms.

"Really?" Michael said, surprised. He looked at Gina, who was standing behind the desk. She smiled and nodded at him.

"Go ahead," she said. "We trust your family. Oh, and someone looked through your stuff, so you can unpack if you want. Just take it easy, alright, Michael?"

Michael snorted. Lincoln nodded. "He will," he said firmly.

Michael let them down the hall to the room he and Sucre shared. "Who's your roommate, Michael?" Veronica asked as she looked at the stuff on the wall next to the other bed. "Is this his girlfriend?"

"Yeah," Michael said. "His name's Sucre. Fernando, I guess, but he goes by Sucre." He took the quilt from Veronica and quickly, carefully made his bed with neat precision. Then he lifted the suitcase he and Lincoln had hastily packed on top of it, and took a deep breath from the exertion.

"Slow down, Mike," Lincoln said.

"I'm going slow," Michael replied. He undid the latches on the ancient suitcase and opened it, pulling out some of his clothes. The closet was behind him; one door had more pictures of Sucre and his girlfriend on it; the other was undecorated. He assumed that was his, and started to hang up his clothing.

"Let me help, Uncle Mike!" LJ said. He jumped up on Michael's bed and started to dig through Michael's suitcase.

"Okay," Michael replied. "You can put my shampoo and stuff like that on that shelf, okay?" He pointed it out to his nephew, and the little boy enthusiastically began to dig for toiletries. "Thanks, bud."

"How's it going, Mike?" Lincoln asked as Michael hung up another tee shirt. Michael felt his shoulder blades tense, but he tried to force the muscles to relax before he spoke.

"I haven't eaten yet," he said coolly. "They can't make me eat, Lincoln." He reached for another shirt.

"Why won't you?" Lincoln asked. Michael raised his eyebrows.

"Is that a serious question?" he asked. "Because, if you look at me, you'll see some additions that weren't there this morning, and they're there just to add fat to my body." Michael cast a sidelong glance at his nephew, but the little boy was engaged in his task. "I'm not going to help them fatten me up. Haven't you read Hansel and Gretel?"

"Michael, you're being fucking ridiculous," Lincoln said. "Honest to god, look at yourself!"

Michael felt tears spring to his eyes, and he blinked them back. "Don't. Don't fucking mock me, Lincoln." Covertly, he pinched his stomach, feeling the fat roll between his fingers. "This is the cruelest thing you've ever done."

"You are fucking insane!" Lincoln burst out. "Michael—"

"Lincoln, stop," Veronica said, putting her hand on his shoulder. "This isn't going to do any good at all."

"Vee—" Lincoln protested.

"No, Linc," Veronica said. She pressed on his shoulder, then walked over to Michael, who was trying not to cry by the closet. "Michael, we're not mocking you. I promise." She put her hands on his shoulders. "You're just going to have to accept that we don't see what you see, okay?"

Michael looked at Veronica's eyes, which were wide and blue, but he saw no dishonesty there. Finally, he nodded, and Veronica gave him a hug.

"It'll be okay, Mike," she said.

He sighed, and let her hug him. She released him. "Alright?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said. Suddenly, he felt LJ's arms close around his legs.

"You okay, Uncle Mike?" LJ asked.

Michael found a smile somewhere, and knelt down to the floor. "Yeah," he said. "I'm okay, LJ."

"Okay," LJ said. He gave him a sloppy kiss on the cheek. "Look! I put your stuff away!"

Michael looked at the carefully placed mess on his shelf and grinned. He'd fix it later…he could handle it for now.

"Thanks, LJ," he said, standing up. His body lurched, unable to handle the sudden change in position and what it did to his blood pressure, and he nearly fell. Veronica and Lincoln noticed immediately, and both of them reached out to steady him.

"Sit down, Mike," Lincoln said. "I'll put the rest of your stuff away."

"Uh…" Michael said, thinking of how messy their apartment could get if Michael didn't reorganize Lincoln's efforts. Veronica took one look at Michael's face, and shook her head.

"You sit too, Linc," she said. "I'll put it away."

Michael managed a weak smile. "Thanks, Veronica," he said, and let himself relax into his bed.

Sara sat alone in the dayroom, looking at all the families around her. She would not cry. It wasn't like she'd expected her father to visit. Why would he?

But despite her resolve, she felt the tears building up behind her eyes. She ducked her head and her hair fell into her face as the tears began to fall.

She was alone.

The PA crackled again. "Visiting hours are now over. Visiting hours are over. All patients to the dining room for HS snack. Visitors, thank you for coming, and drive carefully."


	9. The First Night

Michael finished brushing his teeth, acutely aware that the nurses' aide was watching him

Michael finished brushing his teeth, acutely aware that the nurses' aide was watching him. It was not quite as weird to brush your teeth in front of someone as to take a piss in front of someone…but it was close.

He left the bathroom, and the aide locked the door and left their room without a word to them.

"He's friendly," Michael commented to Sucre, who was behind the curtain he'd pulled to surround his bed for a little privacy as he changed. He heard Sucre snort.

"I told you," Sucre said. He heard Sucre's curtain swish back.

Michael pulled his own curtain and grabbed a tee shirt and pair of pajama bottoms, quickly changing into them.

He pulled his curtain back halfway, so the beds were only halfway divided. "Well, at least they're done harassing us today," Sucre said.

As if to contradict him, there was a knock on the door. "Michael?" Gina's voice floated in.

"Yeah?" Michael replied.

Suddenly, Gina came in, rolling in an IV stand, with a huge bag of…something nasty looking…and Michael flinched.

"We have to do your tube," she said.

Michael heard Sucre whisper something in Spanish as he cringed back against his bed. "No," Michael said. "I don't want—"

"It's not a choice, Michael. Please don't make this any harder on yourself than it has to be," Gina said.

"What do you mean?" Michael asked, staring at the goop in the bag.

"If you don't cooperate, they might decide to send you to a psychiatric ward, Michael, and trust me, this place is much better than a psych ward. So just let me get this done, okay?" Gina wheeled the pole next to his bed. "This is the easy part; the hard part's already done."

Everything in Michael's entire being screamed at him to run, to fight. He could feel adrenaline pouring into his system; his hands started to shake. "Please…" he said.

Gina smiled at him sympathetically. "It'll be okay, Michael," she said. She reached for the end of the tube hanging from his nose and unfastened the orange cap.

Michael's body was tense as she connected it to the other tube, securing it carefully. She messed with some buttons, and the pole beeped; she pushed a few more. There was a swishing whir as formula was pushed through the tube. "Okay, Michael," she said. "Sleep well." She turned off their lights.

His body was shaking hard as she left the room. It was starting; they were making him fat. Oh God. He felt the tears well up in his eyes again.

"Psst," he heard. "Hey, Michael? You okay?"

Sucre's voice wafted through the darkness. Michael swallowed hard, trying to steady his voice.

"Y-yeah," he said. Shit.

"Liar," Sucre said softly. He heard his roommate shift positions in his bed. "Listen man…it's okay. I ain't gonna laugh at you or nothing. My first night here…I bawled my eyes out."

Michael couldn't even imagine the good-natured teenager in the next bed crying; he was always grinning and cracking jokes.

"I've got a t-tube in my nose, and they're ruining all my hard work, and I'm—" Michael said, trying to explain.

"Si, si, yo se," Sucre said. "Yo entiende." Michael heard Sucre sigh. "It ain't easy here, man. This is the fucking hardest thing I done in a long time."

"I just wanna go home," Michael said, surprised but grateful for an ear that really, finally, got what was going through his head. "I want things to go back to how they were, before this became a nightmare." He sniffed, and that damn tube moved, making him sneeze painfully. "Shit! That hurt!"

"I don't know 'bout you, ese," Sucre said after a long moment, "but this has been a nightmare for a long time for me."

Finally the nurse had left them alone.

Sara turned on her side and curled up into a tight ball under the thin hospital blanket. She shivered, wishing she had another.

"Sara?" She heard Didi's voice float through the thin curtain separating their beds.

"Yeah," Sara replied. She heard Didi changing positions in her bed.

"How come your mom and dad didn't come and visit you?"

The question caught Sara hard in the chest. To her surprise, she felt tears come to her eyes. She quickly blinked them back.

"My mom lives in California," Sara replied.

There was a short silence from the other side of the curtain before Didi asked, "Well, what about your daddy?"

Sara knew she was just a little girl asking questions, but it still stung. "He's busy," she said shortly, her voice harsher than intended.

Didi was silent after that. At first, Sara just felt relief that the questions had stopped, but as the silence grew longer, her conscience kicked in. How dare she yell at the little girl for asking questions? She was six years older than Didi—she should have been kinder.

"Didi—" she said, just as Didi said, "I'm sorry Sara."

Sara was startled. "What are you sorry about?" she asked.

"I'm sorry your dad didn't come." The little girl's voice was all sincerity.

Sara paused. This girl was something else.

"Thanks Didi," she said into the quiet.

"Goodnight Sara," Didi said, sounding sleepy. There was a click, and her half of the room went dark.

"Goodnight," Sara said back. She flipped off her light too and stared into the dark with adjusting eyes, trying not to cry.

Michael lay flat on his back in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling and listening to the rhythmic whir of the pole pushing that formula into his body. Thoughts moved through his head at a blur.

They were making him fat. That tube in his nose…he swore he could feel his stomach inflating like a balloon. Come morning, Michael would resemble nothing so much as a Goodyear blimp. Oh God.

He flipped onto his side and wrapped his arms protectively around himself. Lincoln wouldn't even recognize him. He'd have to start his crusade all over again.

The idea of all his hard work, all that starvation, going to waste, made him feel sick. He flipped over again and groaned slightly as his hipbone dug into the mattress. It hurt.

Sucre mumbled something in Spanish.

"Huh?" Michael whispered into the dark. Did his roommate sleep-talk or something?

"I said cut it out, man. How the hell's a guy supposed to sleep over here?" Sucre's voice was a little muffled.

"Sorry," Michael replied. He turned back onto his back.

"Cristo!" Sucre said. His voice became clearer. "What's up, man?"

"Can't sleep," Michael replied.

"No shit," Sucre replied. "Porque?"

Michael hesitated. Did Sucre really want to know?

"Why, Papi?" Sucre repeated.

"I…they're gonna make me fat…" Michael mumbled into his pillow. The machine whirred again as more formula was pushed down the tube.

He heard Sucre sigh. "They ain't gonna make you fat Papi," he said. "They don't make anyone fat. Even walking skeletons like you and Didi only have to get normal to go home. Not fat."

"I'm not a walking skeleton!" Michael cried. "Didi's a twig, compared to me."

"You got that brain distortion they talk about, Papi," Sucre said. "You're just as scrawny-looking as that niña, whether you see it or not."

"Stop bullshitting me," Michael said, sitting up suddenly. He felt anger course through him.

"I ain't, man," Sucre said. "It's true."

Michael lay back and stared at the ceiling again. He could hear Sucre's breathing even out under the rhythmic whir of the machine.

"If it's true," Michael whispered plaintively to the ceiling, "Why can't I see it?"

Sara lay on her side, still as a statue under the uselessly thin blanket. She was cold; her fingertips felt like ice cubes.

She wondered if her father would come and bring her things eventually. He'd have to eventually, wouldn't he? Or he could send someone; she couldn't dress in scrubs forever. They'd only given her one set, and it wasn't like it would last very long. And this place was cold…she'd need a sweater, and a blanket, and maybe some slippers. She didn't even know what had happened to her dance stuff, or she'd at least have a wrap sweater and some leg warmers. But that had disappeared somehow too.

She could hear the whir-swish of Didi's feeding tube from the other side of the curtain, and she concentrated on the noise. Whir-swish….whir-swish…whir-swish…She thought of the little girl attached to that tube. Such a sweet kid, and so young. It seemed like a tragedy, that a kid like that was here, suffering like this.

She moved her fingertips close to her mouth, and huffed hot air onto them, trying desperately to warm them up. This was ridiculous. She needed another blanket.

Sara pushed her blanket aside as silently as she could and carefully sat up, letting the dizziness pass before she stood. Then she quietly tiptoed out into the hallway.

Michael lay still, aware that all his movement earlier had awakened his roommate. He couldn't sleep though; HE was aware that ever whir of that machine equaled more calories going into his body.

He ran his hands over his stomach again, checking for obvious changes. He didn't feel anything, but that didn't mean they weren't there.

He wanted to get up, wanted to walk. They'd just come by with the flashlight to check that he was in bed; it would be at least thirty minutes before they checked again. Maybe if he was quiet, he could walk up and down the hallway and burn off some of these calories.

Michael stood up and leaned against the wall until the dizziness passed, then unplugged the feeding tube pole from the wall and carefully, slowly, poked his head out into the hallway.

"Michael?"

His head turned towards her whispered query. "Sara?" he said.

Sara looked down the hallway before she leaned against the wall and slid to the floor. "Can't sleep?" she asked.

"No. You?" He found himself following her lead, sitting on the floor next to her. It hurt, hard against his butt, and he shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position.

She smiled at him; her smile was really pretty, he noted, even if it was tired. "I was looking for another blanket; it's freezing in my room," she said quietly. "What about you?"

She noticed his face flushing slightly. "I wanted to go for a walk," he said defensively.

To his surprise, she just nodded like she understood, and gestured at the pole he was sitting by. "You're worried, aren't you?" she asked.

Michael's shoulders relaxed a little. "I don't need this," he said. "They're making me fat!" Even though it was a whisper, it was vehement.

She studied him. He was so bony…he looked sick. Some of the people here were just a little too thin…just glamorously thin, just heroin-chic. But Michael…Michael looked sick. "You're really thin, Michael," she said softly.

"I want to be really thin," Michael said. Then, suddenly his eyes widened, and he looked at her.

He'd never said that before. He didn't even think he'd ever thought that before. He'd thought he wanted to be healthy…that he wanted to stave off heart disease…but he'd never exactly thought that he wanted to be really thin before. Where had that thought come from?

"Anyway, you're really thin too ," he defended, disturbed by the thought.

"Not like you," Sara said. Sometimes, when she looked in the mirror, she knew she was a little too thin. Not often…not regularly…but every once in awhile, she could see it. She'd look in the mirror, and she'd see that her arms were too thin. That her face was pointed. But then she'd look again, and she'd see Fat Sara again, and she'd wonder what happened.

They sat together in silence for a long moment, both recognizing the futility of this argument. It wasn't like either would convince the other they were too thin…not now.

"I wish my dad would bring me some of my things," Sara said softly, changing the subject.

"Didn't he visit tonight?" Michael asked. He hadn't noticed, having spent the entire visiting hours with Lincoln, Veronica, and LJ. By the time they'd emerged from his room, almost all the visitors were gone, save for Sucre's mother and his girlfriend.

"No," Sara said. She smiled, but the smile was bitter. "He doesn't even care." She noticed the bitterness in her own voice, but she couldn't find it within herself to care. Here she was, sick and without any of her stuff, and her dad had barely shown up to sign the paperwork to take care of her. He hadn't bothered to say a word. "Governor Tancredi can't be bothered."

"Governor Tancredi?" Michael echoed, and his stomach twisted. "Your father is the governor of Illinois?" He couldn't believe it.

Shit. Had she really said that out loud? Looking at Michael's face, she knew she had. Well, it was too late to take it back. "Yeah," she said.

Michael blinked. What could he say to her? A guy like him, so poor he had to go to the food shelf to feed his nephew…she had to be rich. She had everything. They had nothing in common.

Except that they were here. So they must have something in common after all.

"I'm sorry, Sara," he said. "That your dad didn't come, I mean." His words sounded a little stilted, but he meant them, and he hoped that she could hear that.

She looked up at him, into those beautiful turquoise eyes. He meant those words, she could see it.

"Thanks, Michael," she said.

His lips turned up ever so slightly at the corners.

He saw her shiver, and he remembered that she had come out in search of a blanket. Damn. If she only had those hospital blankets, no wonder she was freezing. Maybe he could ask Lincoln…no, he'd ask Veronica to bring an extra blanket. She'd have something fit for a girl like Sara Tancredi.

"I'll be right back," Michael said, standing up. He waited for the dizziness to pass, and then started down the hallway, dragging that stupid feeding pole with him. He made it out to the desk, where a nurse was sitting, typing away at a computer. She looked up when she heard the swish-whir of his feeding tube.

"Yes…Michael?" the nurse said, looking at a chart by her computer.

"Can I get a couple extra blankets, please?" he asked.

"Certainly," the nurse said. She smiled at him and stood up, disappearing into a back room.

She reappeared after a moment, a few thin blankets in her arms. She handed them over to Michael, who cradled them in one arm. "Thank you," he said, and turned and walked back into the darkness of the adolescent hallway, where Sara was still sitting on the floor.

"Here," he said, handing her the blankets. "So you don't have to freeze."

Sara was surprised when Michael handed off the blankets to her, by the gallantry of the gesture. What fifteen year old guy treated a girl so chivalrously? She accepted them gratefully, though. "Thank you, Michael," she said.

He just ducked his head. She rose carefully to her feet, and noted absently that he was taller than her by a good two inches, also a rarity. "The nurse is going to make rounds again pretty soon," she said. "They'll catch us out here. We'll probably get in trouble."

"Probably. We get in trouble for everything around here," Michael said. "Goodnight, Sara."

"Goodnight, Michael." She disappeared back into her room silently.

Michael watched her go, then reluctantly walked back into his own room. And as he settled back into his bed and plugged in the feeding pole, he thought about their conversation.

And as she settled into bed, she thought of it too.


	10. The Morning Routine

She woke up to a rattling noise

She woke up to a rattling noise. "Good morning, Sara," a cheerful voice said. "How did you sleep last night?"

Tired, Sara's lips barely moved. "Fine," she managed to mumble, her standard answer. She felt someone touch her arm, and she woke up a little more. "What are you doing?"

"Checking your vitals, honey," the voice said. "Just lay still." The blood pressure cuff began to squeeze, then released. "Open your mouth," the voice said. She did, and a thermometer was placed under her tongue. It beeped twice, and was removed. "Okay, Sara, you can stand up now. Not too fast, okay?"

Sara stood up carefully, putting her hand on the wall to steady herself, and looked at the woman. Her name tag read Mel. She moved over to Didi's side of the room. "Good morning, Didi," Sara heard her say. "How'd you sleep last night?"

"Okay," she heard Didi reply. The whole routine apparently was repeated over again on Didi's side of the room as Sara stood there, noticing the fullness of her bladder and the dizziness, exacerbated by her exhaustion.

Then Mel was back, taking her blood pressure again. It puffed and released, and then Mel unwrapped her bicep. "Okay, honey, you can use the bathroom," she said.

Sara did gratefully, and washed her hands. When she emerged, Didi was waiting to use the bathroom, and Mel had something in her hands that she handed to Sara.

"Put on these gowns, honey, nothing on underneath them, and go down to the end of the hallway where the chairs are so Susanna can weigh you. Then you can take a shower and stuff, okay?"

"I don't have any extra clothes," Sara said, taking the gowns automatically.

"I'll bet Susanna can rustle up another set of scrubs for you, if you tell her that," Mel replied. She tugged on the curtain around Sara's bed. "Now, go on honey."

"Thank you," Sara said.

"You're welcome, hon," Mel said. Didi came out of the bathroom and Mel locked it. "See you girls down there."

Michael was grateful that they'd unhooked that feeding tube from the pole after taking his vitals; it made some things a little easier. He undressed slowly, dizziness hampering his efforts. He put one of the gowns on, and tied it behind his back. It was so flimsy; surely everyone could see through it? He draped the other one around him the opposite way, like a bathrobe.

"We practically have to walk down the hall naked!" he said to Sucre.

"Si," Sucre replied. "These aren't the latest fashion." He heard the other boy's footsteps on the floor. "I'll see you down there."

He heard Sucre walk out into the hallway and sighed, looking down at himself. He was used to wearing second hand crap, yeah, and shit that no one else wanted…but that was a far cry from parading down the hallway half naked, showing off his disgusting body for everyone to see like this!

Well, it didn't appear he had a choice.

Sara sat in the line with everyone else, waiting. They called in one person, who'd go in, and about five minutes later, they'd come out. Sara couldn't stop thinking.

She'd been here a day. How much weight had she gained over a day? They didn't have mirrors here, except for little mirrors that you could see your chest and face in…what if she'd suddenly gained twenty pounds and she didn't know it? Or worse? She was suddenly terrified of that scale…and yet, she really, really wanted to know how much she weighed.

"Sara?" the woman who Sara assumed was Susanna called out.

Well, ready or not, here it came.

Michael stepped into the weight room.

"Take off your outer gown Michael, and step onto the scale backwards," the nurse said, looking at a clipboard.

Michael stopped. Backwards? No way. If they were gonna make him gain weight, he was going to see what he was gaining. He slipped off his outer gown and quickly stepped onto the scale.

The woman slapped her hand over the readout before Michael could see it. "Backwards, Michael," the nurse said.

"No," Michael said. "If you're gonna weigh me, I'm going to see it." He stood still, trying to peek through her fingers unsuccessfully.

"It does you no good to know your weight, Michael," the nurse said. "Now, turn around."

Michael glared at her, but she just stared back. Finally, he slowly turned around.

He tried to turn his head to see, but she was too fast for him. "All right," she said, pushing a button. "Got it." She picked up the clipboard and wrote something on it, but he couldn't figure out what it was. "Put on your gown, and you can go back down to your room and get dressed."

"Can't I take a shower?" Michael asked.

The nurse sighed. "I'm going to let Mel field this one. Go sit out in the hallway, Michael."

Sara rinsed the soap out of her hair slowly, relishing the feeling of the hot water against her skin. It was the only time she'd felt really warm, it seemed, for a long time. They'd told her to keep her shower under seven minutes…but she was so reluctant to leave the steamy warmth.

She'd heard Michael yelling at the nurse this morning, wanting to know his weight. It wasn't that she blamed him…she'd wanted to know hers too, but she had also felt ever-so-slightly grateful that they weren't going to tell her what it was. She was afraid of that number; afraid it had jumped wildly. Maybe she didn't need to know.

Maybe that thought was crazy too. She ran her hands over her hipbones, examining for visible changes. She didn't see anything…yet.

With a sigh, Sara turned off the water and squeezed the water out of her hair. Maybe she was just a chicken, too afraid to know what they were going to do to her. It was easier to just shut her eyes.

"I can't shower?" Michael yelled. "What do you mean I can't shower?"

"There's no need to yell, Michael," Mel said, putting her hand on his shoulder. "Relax. It's a simple matter of your vital signs. They aren't good enough for you to be unobserved in the shower. You could fall and hit your head, and the liability—"

"I'm not going to fall and hit my head!" Michael jumped out of the chair they'd forced him to take, and lurched forward. Mel caught his arms.

"See what I mean, Michael? You can wash up in your room at the sink, all right? I'm sorry, but it will have to do for now. Now, come on."

"But—" Michael cried.

"Michael, it's in your best interests," Mel said gently.

Michael decided he was definitely going to hate those words.

Sara tied the waistband of the scrubs around her hips, and slipped the top over her shoulders. It was so nice to be free of that cumbersome IV! She sighed and pulled her curtain back, revealing Didi, lying on her stomach and coloring in a coloring book. Disney Princesses, Sara noted.

"Who's your favorite princess?" Sara asked.

"Jasmine," Didi answered without hesitation. "How about you?"

"Belle," Sara replied after a moment of thought. She hadn't thought about that for a long time, really.

"We both picked princesses we kind of look like, huh?" Didi said, still coloring very carefully within the lines.

"I guess," Sara said, surprised that Didi had noticed. She hadn't. She sat on the edge of her bed and started to put on her socks.

"I want to be a princess." The words were so quiet Sara barely heard them come out of Didi's lips, but they had.

Sara sighed. It was sad…but she knew what the little girl meant. "Me too, Didi," she replied quietly. "I think that's what started this problem."

Didi didn't reply. Sara kept putting on her socks.

Michael finished making his bed and lay down carefully on top of it so he didn't mess it up. "How much longer do we have until they call breakfast, Sucre?" he asked.

He saw Sucre look up at the clock at the wall; it read 7:03. "About half an hour or so," Sucre said. "Why? You gonna actually eat today?" The teen plopped down on his bed, which was much more hastily made than Michael's own.

Michael snorted. "Hardly," he said. "They spent the whole night stuffing me like a fucking Thanksgiving turkey."

"You gotta eat something, you know," Sucre said. "You're never gonna get out of here if you don't eat, Papi."

"They can't keep me forever," Michael said. "They going to make me three hundred pounds or something?"

"No…but they won't let you go home 'til you eat, man. It's the rules." Sucre's eyes were serious but compassionate.

"Why not? If I've gained enough weight, they'd have to let me go home, wouldn't they?" Michael asked.

"Uh uh," Sucre replied. "Cuz they know you'd just go home and not eat again, and you'd be back in like two months, skinny as a rail again. They won't let you leave 'til you eat everything, and you do it on a regular basis. That's what my mama told me, and she said that's what the doctor told her."

Michael sighed and looked down at his belly again. "It's not fair, man!"

"It'll be okay, man," Sucre said. "You can do it. I ate mushrooms, and ask mi mama…I don't eat mushrooms."

"Yeah," Michael said, "but I don't…I mean…" he stopped, unable to believe the words that had almost come out of his mouth.

Sucre supplied them instead. "You don't eat anything, huh Papi?"

Michael sighed, and smoothed out his covers again before lying back. He stared up at the ceiling for a long moment.

"Exactly," he whispered.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. You are now invited into the dining room for breakfast. Sweatshirts off, and sleeves up; we'll see you in the dining room." There was a crackling pop and the P.A. went off.


	11. The First Day

Michael stared down at his untouched tray

Michael stared down at his untouched tray. The food looked disgusting, as cold as it was; the eggs looked like rubber, now, and the toast like cardboard. But even if he'd eaten it right away…well, he wouldn't have, and that was that.

Next to him, Sucre drummed his fingers against the clear table. His tray was cleared off already; he was determined to get that orange band and "shake hands with the president" without anyone watching him. Not that Michael could blame him; he was sick of people watching him take a piss too; and if he ever had to crap, well…wasn't gonna happen.

"You should try something, Papi," Sucre encouraged quietly to Michael. "What's it gonna hurt?"

"No," Michael said stubbornly. He shook his head. "Anyway—"

"Time's up!" Louis called from the head of the table. He stood up and started checking the trays. People started clearing them away. Sucre sighed.

"You could at least drink the replacement instead of having them stick it in that bag," Sucre said.

Michael just shook his head. "I'm not making this any easier on them," he said.

Sucre's brow wrinkled. "You're not making it any easier on YOU, Papi," he said.

"You can go, Sucre," Louis said. Sucre stood up, leaving Michael there, feeling like he'd been hit in the back of the head.

Michael listened as Sucre talked in group therapy.

"I been doing this for a pretty long time, you know?" Sucre said, looking at the therapist for confirmation. Dr. Henry Pope's face didn't really change, he just nodded at Sucre to continue. "I mean, Mama always wanted me to eat, 'cause that's how she shows she loves you, you know? She feeds you a lot. But I don't want to get fat…and I don't want Mama to think I don't love her, neither, 'cause I got a good mama, you know? And my tía Lupe would kill me if I made mi mama cry…and that's how I figured out about purging, even though it's kind of a girl thing…"

"It's not a girl thing, Fernando," Dr. Pope interrupted. "You know that; we've talked about this before. How many males are here right now?"

"Well, yeah," Sucre said. "But I mean…well, Tía Lupe, she said…anyway." Sucre smiled kind of awkwardly. "I think I probably took up enough time."

"Do you have anything else to say, Fernando?" Dr. Pope asked.

"Uh uh," Sucre replied, shaking his head.

"Does the group have any feedback?" Dr. Pope continued, as he had for the other teenagers.

There was a moment of silence, before Michael found himself talking.

"You're the one who told me this wasn't a girl thing," he said. "So how come you say it's 'kind of a girl thing' now?"

Sucre's tan face turned slightly red. "Sometimes I…I have trouble separating the ED," he pronounced it 'Ah Day' "thoughts from my own."

"What do you mean?" Michael said, now more confused.

"The E. D., or Eating Disorder thoughts," Didi said. "Like, if you think, "I'm fat," that's an ED thought, because you're not fat." Even as the little girl said it, she looked a little skeptical. "Or so they say."

"Is that an ED thought, Didi?" Dr. Pope prodded her.

She nodded reluctantly, but still looked like she only half believed it.

"So…thoughts like, "I've gained a thousand pounds overnight?" Michael said.

"Definitely an ED thought," Sucre said confidently.

"They're easier to identify in someone else, aren't they?" Dr. Pope asked.

Around the circle of the group, people nodded. Dr. Pope smiled. "Is that it for you, Fernando?" he asked.

"Si," Sucre said. "I guess it is."

"Thank you," he said. He looked to the next person. "And you are…Sara. How are you doing today, Sara?"

Michael saw Sara flinch slightly. "I'm fine," she said quietly. She looked tired; Michael wondered if she'd slept as poorly as he had.

"Really?" Dr. Pope asked. Sara nodded unconvincingly.

Michael heard the door open behind him. "Michael? Will you come with me?"

His stomach clenched as he stood up.

Michael stepped out into the hallway, pushing that stupid pole, and turned to face the man who'd pulled him out into the hallway. He was tall, and to Michael's eyes, looked too thin—what an irony. "Hello, Michael," the man said. "I'm Dr. Alexander Mahone. It's nice to meet you." He held out his hand.

Michael shook it.

"We'll go to your room," Dr. Mahone said.

Michael followed the doctor down the hallway and into the room he and Sucre shared. The doctor gestured at his bed. "Sit down, Michael," he said, looking at Michael's chart.

Michael sat down at the edge of the bed, feeling edgy still. He watched the doctor look through his chart.

"Well, Michael, it looks like things are not going very well for you," the doctor said bluntly. "You have been starving yourself for awhile now. We have some work to do here."

Michael stared at this man. He didn't even want to dignify that with an answer.

"You've been refusing your replacements, I see," the doctor continued. "Are you planning on attempting to eat any time soon?"

"No," Michael said coldly.

"Why not?" Dr. Mahone replied, his tone similarly disinterested.

"That," Michael replied stiffly, "is my business."

The doctor sighed. "Well, as long as you realize that in the end, you won't go home until you eat, and do it on a regular basis Michael."

Michael didn't speak, but his mind was moving fast.

"Alright. I'm going to listen to you breathe. Take some deep breaths in and out through your mouth." The doctor pressed his stethoscope against Michael's back. Michael took a breath.

The exam was very similar to the one Dr. Page had performed in his office before he had sent Michael to the hospital, listening to his heart and stomach, pressing on his belly and legs, looking at his ankles.

The doctor made some notes in Michael's chart. "Okay, Michael," he said. "You can go back to group now."

Michael joined the other teenagers as his nurse ushered him into a large room, where there were tables covered with paper. Everyone seemed to be doing some kind of craft.

Sucre, Sara, Didi, and Sofia were sitting around a table together, and Sucre's hand rose.

"Hey, Papi," he called. "We saved you a seat."

Michael took a step towards the table, when he was intercepted by an adult in a name tag.

"Are you Michael?" the woman asked. Michael nodded. She smiled. "I'm Hilary. I'm the occupational therapist. Today is our free day, so you can do whatever you want out of our craft cabinets." She gestured at a wall, which was covered by four huge cabinets.

Michael nodded, and rolled himself over to the cabinet, quickly choosing a piece of paper and an origami book, and making his way over to the table where his friends sat.

"Where were you, Michael?" Sofia asked in her soft accented voice.

"With the doctor, I'd bet," Didi said. She was intently molding something out of clay, although Michael couldn't figure out what it was for the life of him.

"Yeah," Michael said, opening the book arbitrarily and beginning to fold the paper. "That Dr. Mahone is creepy."

"Yeah he is," Sucre said. He said something in Spanish that made Sofia laugh.

"What does that mean?" Didi asked, and Michael was glad she'd asked, so he didn't have to. He saw Sara listening intently also for the answer. Michael made another fold, and another, then consulted the book again.

"You're too young to hear it," Sucre said. Sofia nodded in agreement.

"It means that he's creepy," Sofia repeated. "That's all."

Michael made a few more folds. This was working out okay…he folded again, and again.

"No talking about staff, folks," Hilary said, making them all jump. "You know the rules Sofia, Didi."

"Sorry," Didi said, but she wasn't very convincing. Hilary walked off. He made the last few folds, then looked at the resulting paper crane. Cool. He could make more of these. He grabbed another piece of paper off the center off the table and started over.

The door swung open. Dr. Mahone stuck his head in the door.

"Sara?" he said. The whole table paused for a moment before Sara stood.

"Good luck," Didi whispered loudly.

Michael saw the corners of Sara's lips turn up ever-so-slightly. "Shh, Didi," she said. She started towards the door.

"Why?" Didi asked Sucre and Sofia. "You said that he's creepy!" It was a stage whisper.

Hilary came up behind them again. "Didi!" she said.

"Sorry," Didi said again.

Michael, Sucre, and Sofia were all choking on their laughter as they looked at the consternation on Hilary's face.

"It's time to clean up," Hilary said finally.

The P.A. came to life again with a snapping pop. "Attention, attention. It's time for A.M. snack! Come to the dining room with your sweatshirts off and your sleeves up! Thank you!" It snapped again as it went off.

Sara sat on the couch, feeling exceptionally guilty. She'd actually done it; she'd eaten what they'd put in front of her. It was just a yogurt, but she hadn't even had the option to purge it, and THAT was what made it so difficult.

Sucre plopped down next to her. "How you doing, Sara?" he asked. "You got snack down, huh?"

She let out a groan. "I feel guilty," she said. There was a thoughtful silence, then…

"Are you anorexic like Michael?" Sucre asked, seemingly out of the blue.

Sara was startled. No one else had asked her what her diagnosis was. "No," she said. "I'm…bulimic."

"Oh," Sucre said. "Me too." He looked at her. "It's 'cause you can't puke, huh?"

She stared at him.

"Remember? Me too?" he said. "Just 'cause I'm a guy don't mean I don't get it. Not in here."

She relaxed back into the couch a little. "Yeah, I guess so," she said.

"No guessing, querida," he said. "I know."

"Hi Michael," a bright female voice said. "I'm Megan. I'm the dietician here. Let's go have a talk, okay?"

Michael looked up at the bubbly woman from his seat in one of the soft chairs in the dayroom, then looked at Sucre and Sara, where they were sitting on the couch. If he wasn't going to eat anything, was it really necessary to talk to a dietician?

Sucre seemed to read his mind. "Go, Papi," he said. Michael sighed, and stood up slowly, aware that the dizziness would come in a rush.

"Let's go to your room to talk, okay?" she said.

"Sure," Michael said, knowing the question was a rhetorical one. He followed her out of the dayroom and down the hallway to his and Sucre's shared room—cell, he thought ironically—and took a seat on his bed. She sat on the chair across from his bed.

"So, Michael," she said cheerfully once they were seated. "Your nurse, Kim, tells me you won't even touch your trays. Will you tell me why that is?"

Michael stared at this woman dubiously. Was she joking?

She obviously mistook his silence for something besides disbelief. "You must have a reason. What is it?"

"Are you serious?" Michael asked her.

"Of course," Megan said. "I want to know." She smiled at him in a way that was likely supposed to be encouraging.

Michael gritted his teeth. "I don't touch my trays because I'm not gonna eat anything. And I'm not going to eat anything because I don't want to get fat, and you've already got a fucking tube in my nose pumping calories in me."

She didn't seem fazed by his language. "Your body needs fuel to function properly, Michael," she said. "We have no intention of making you fat."

"I'll use the fuel I stored already," Michael said, pinching viciously at his stomach. Megan frowned a little bit.

"Okay, Michael," she said. "You and I are going to go over some basic nutrition and metabolism facts, and we're going to see if we can't get some correct information into your brain, because you are missing some critical facts here. I think that's only fair for you, and maybe it would help you make decisions that could make your treatment easier on you." She smiled at him again. "So come with me. We're going to go to the dietician's office."

"It's time for lunch; time for lunch. Please remove your sweatshirts and roll up your sleeves and we'll see you in the dining room."

"Oh God, I am so full," Sucre muttered. He put his hand on his stomach. "I feel like a vaca gorda."

Sara did remember that from her Spanish class; she didn't even have to call Sofia over from the nurses desk for a translation. "You're not a cow," she said. "Shut up."

Sucre raised his eyebrows at her. "I heard you say something not so nice about yourself like five seconds ago," he said. "Let me have my pity party, huh?"

His tone made her smile. "All right, all right," she said. She couldn't blame him; her stomach was so full too, and she hadn't eaten everything they'd put in front of her like Sucre had, but she had gotten through at least half of it, and she felt stuffed to the gills. Plus, that replacement drink was like drinking lead…

She heard the rattling of Michael's feeding pole and looked up just as he plopped down on the couch next to her. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking frustrated. She noticed the nurses had refilled his feeding tube bag.

"What's up, Michael?" she asked.

"How's your 'last stand' going?" Sucre cracked.

"Shut up, Sucre" Michael said irritably.

"You're gonna have to drink it sometime, Papi," he said. Michael didn't reply, instead turning to Sara.

"How's your day going, Sara?" he asked, pointedly ignoring Sucre.

"Okay," she said. "You?"

Michael smiled without humor. "I've had better."

"No kidding," she said. "Where's Didi?"

"She didn't want to drink her replacement either," Michael said. "They're filling up her bag. Sheesh. Makes it sound like we're…I don't know. A car, or something?"

"Yeah. And right now, you're a car in park," Sucre said.

"So they should stop refueling," Michael replied.

Sara decided to change the subject. "Do you know what's going on this afternoon?" she asked.

"I read the schedule, I guess," Michael said. "Stretch, whatever that is."

Sucre grinned. "That's the only time we get to move without getting in trouble for it, mis amigos. It's my favorite time of day."

"Sounds good to me," Sara said. She couldn't wait to stretch out her muscles, before they atrophied or something from all this sitting around.

"Hey!" Sucre said. "The vampire is here. He caught Sofia."

"Huh?" Sara and Michael said at the same time. They looked over to the nurses station, where Sofia was now sitting in a chair, and a phlebotomist was tying a huge blue band around her arm to draw blood. "Oh," Sara said.

"He's better than the one that came yesterday," Sucre said, leaning back. He elbowed Michael gently. "They call that one "The Jabber." Little Vietnamese lady who don't speak much English, and when she goes for your blood—jah!" Sucre made a violent motion with his hand. "Look at the bruise she left." He held out his arm, exposing a big black and blue mark under his tan skin.

"Who calls her "The Jabber?" Sara asked, wondering which of the people had made up the nickname. There were only ten teenagers; the five of them, and five other girls who also kept together in a group to themselves. Had one of the adults made up the name?

"T-Bag named her," Sucre said. "She had to go for him a few times, I guess, 'cause even though his veins stick outta his arms like that, they're rolling or something…he explained it to me once, but I don't get it. Anyway, he got these black and blue marks that set John off trying to sue the damn hospital or something—"

"Who's John?" Sara asked.

"His boyfriend," Sucre said. "They're like married or something. The guy's a weirdo, though…he seems like he could be a mob boss from a movie when he gets all mad, and boy was he ever mad when he saw T-Bag's arms. Whooo-eee. I thought someone was gonna die!" Sucre laughed. "T-Bag was all, "Calm down, calm down, it's just a little bitty bruise…"

Michael laughed, and Sara looked at him, liking the sound of it.

"I only talked to him that one time," Michael said, "but that sounds like a perfect imitation to me!"

Sofia said, "A perfect imitation of who? Oh, and Michael? The blood guy wants you."

"T-Bag," Sara said, as Michael stood and headed over to the chair that Sofia had vacated. Sofia took Michael's place on the couch.

"T-Bag's so funny," Sofia said. "He can tell a story like no one I've ever met. But don't tell my grandfather I told you that." She giggled behind her slender hand.

Sucre asked Sofia something in Spanish, so rapidly that Sara could only tell it was a question from the inflection. Sofia replied in the affirmative.

"Damn it you two, speak English," Sara said.

"It was just something I didn't want las enfermeras to know," Sucre said. "You understand?"

Sara nodded. Las enfermeras. The nurses. She sighed.

"I'm so sick of this place," she said. "I've barely been here…24 hours, and all I want to do is go home!"

Sofia patted her hand. Sara wasn't expecting it, and she flinched.

"It's okay, Sara," Sofia said. "It will get better, I promise. Once you can get this orange bracelet," and she gestured to her own too-thin orange banded wrist, "and get some privileges, it gets easier to be here."

"But I can't eat everything on my tray," Sara said. "It's too much."

"You can," Sofia said. "You just think it's too much, but think about it. You've eaten way more than that before, right? So you can do it, if you make yourself." Sofia's eyes were gentle. "Just force yourself. Sucre's doing it."

"Yep," Sucre said. "And if I make it, I'm gonna get that orange band tomorrow." He smiled thinking about it.

"I'm…I'm scared of it, though," Sara admitted, more quietly. Sofia smiled at her, and in that smile, Sara saw sadness and complete understanding.

"We're all scared of it, Sara," she said. "But to get what you want, you got to do what you're scared of, you know?"

Sara nodded. She heard the rattling of the feeding pole, and saw Didi walking towards them, and when she looked up, she also saw Michael standing there.

"Your turn Sara," he said. "The vampire calls for you."

Sara stood up.

"It's time for adolescent stretch; see you in the OT/PT room!" The PA system crackled off with a loud pop.

"What room is that again?" Michael asked aloud. Didi spoke up to answer him.

"Remember where we had OT this morning, with the crafts and stuff?" she asked. Michael's mind flashed back to his paper cranes, and her lump of clay, and he nodded. "That's the OT/PT room."

"Oh," he said, feeling stupid. He should have realized that immediately.

He was stopped short with his self-berating by Sucre. "Come on," he said. "I been waiting for this since lunch."

All ten of the adolescents made their way down the hallway in two bunches; Michael's bunch was louder, because of the clamor that his and Didi's feeding tube poles made. They shuffled inside the OT room, which had been transformed via some mats laid out on the floor. A woman with long red hair tied back in a braid stood, watching them with a smile on her face.

"Come in, come in," she said. "Welcome to stretch. I'm Linda, the physical therapist. Find a spot where you won't hit anyone, and we'll get started."

Michael found a spot for himself and his stupid pole, and waited as everyone else founds spots. Linda then called, "Okay! Reach up to the ceiling!" and did what she said. Michael followed her lead, feeling foolish.

At least, he reminded himself, it was a chance to move. An hour where they wouldn't yell at him for tapping his legs or restlessly jiggling his feet. He'd take what he could get. Anything to burn a few calories.

The PA crackled on again. "Time for PM Snack, folks. Sweatshirts off, sleeves up. See you in the dining room."

Michael sighed. "I swear we just did this," he complained to Sofia.

"We did," Sofia said softly. "That's how it works around here." She smiled at him, almost apologetically, as if she had something to do with it.

"Well, it sucks."

Four teenage heads bobbed in agreement with him, and behind his shoulder, he heard an older voice drawl, "You got that right kid," in a southern accent.

At least he wasn't alone.

"Now it's…time for tutoring," Sara said, consulting the schedule hanging on the dayroom wall. "Right?"

"Right," Didi said, rattling past her and taking her favorite spot on the couch again, the one her doll had 'saved' for her over snack. Sara sat down next to her; Michael took the spot on her other side. She momentarily had the visual they must make to anyone walking by, with the two poles hedging her in the middle of the couch. She giggled.

"What's so funny, querida?" Sucre asked as he plopped into the chair next to the couch.

"Nothing," she said, shaking her head. "Is the tutor here yet?"

"The tutor doesn't show up until four," Sucre said. "It's 'cause they gotta finish cleaning up the dining room so we can use it for tutoring, you know?"

She remembered that from her first day, and nodded. Sofia walked over and sat down on the loveseat. "My school sent MORE homework," she complained. "Like I don't have enough."

"Oh!" Sara said. "How did you find that out?"

"They faxed it to me at the nurses' desk," Sofia said. "My mama told the school to do that."

"I hope my dad thought of that," Sara muttered. Someone on his staff would have, at least, she hoped. Someone had to remember her, right? Even if it wasn't Governor Tancredi himself. The bitterness of her mind voice surprised her.

"He'll remember, Sara," Michael said, and his arm brushed against hers, slowly and softly enough that she knew it was a purposeful touch. She relaxed her shoulder blades; she hadn't realized they were tense.

"Sara? We have something for you at the desk," her nurse Kara called from the desk.

"See? I bet that's it," Michael said.

Sara stood up and walked over to the desk; Kara handed her a stack of papers. "From your school," she said as explanation. "Just in time for tutoring."

Sara felt her shoulders relax a little more. Thank God some things were working out how they were supposed to, at least. She took the stack gratefully. "Thanks, Kara," she said.

"No problem. Go sit down," she said with a smile. Sara returned to the couch, clutching the papers to her chest.

"Was I right?" Michael asked. Sara nodded, and she saw Michael smile. He had such a great smile…

She looked down to the stack of papers. Algebra, English, Biology, Government…man, she had so much to do.

"Tutor's here," Sucre said, breaking her train of thought.

She'd get started right away.

There was a familiar crackling pop. "It's time for dinner; please roll up your sleeves and take off your sweatshirts and join us in the dining room. Time for dinner, everyone." The PA crackled off.

Visiting hours. Sara settled into a chair. Her father hadn't showed up last night; surely he wouldn't show up tonight either. Frank Tancredi was reliable in some ways.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw a familiar figure. She looked up.

It wasn't her father; but it was his driver, and he was hauling her big monogrammed sage suitcase. She practically leapt from the chair she was so glad to see him, and nearly fell from the resulting dizziness.

Her nurse, Kara, saw, and rushed over to her. "Are you okay Sara?" she asked, sounding concerned. Sara laughed.

"I'm great," she said. She gestured towards Marcus, their driver. "My father sent my stuff! Marcus, thank you." She walked to meet him, and Kara trailed after her.

"My pleasure, Miss Tancredi," Marcus said. Kara took the enormous suitcase from him. He turned immediately back towards the elevators, and disappeared without another word.

Kara raised her eyebrows; Sara wondered what she was thinking. Likely nothing complimentary about her family, not that Sara could blame her. Finally, Kara looked at her.

"Well," she said. "Would you like to go get your things looked through and unpacked? I have a moment right now, I suppose, and you've been waiting for quite awhile." She smiled.

"Yes," Sara said enthusiastically. "Thank you so much!"

She followed Kara as she wheeled her suitcase down to her room.

When she entered her room, to her surprise, there was a flowered white comforter spread over her bed. It was beautiful; where had it come from?

"I like your comforter, Sara," her nurse said as Sara approached her bed. "Where did you get it?"

Sara looked at it closer; there was a small folded paper crane on the pillow, just like the one Michael had taught himself to make today in OT. She smiled.

"It was a gift from a friend," she said, carefully picking up the crane.

That night, as they were standing in the hallway waiting for the nurses' aides to unlock their bathrooms, Sara walked over to Michael and Sucre's room.

"Michael?" she said.

"Yeah?" Michael said. He walked over to the door, free of the pole for once. She was surprised.

"What happened to your feeding tube thing?" Sara asked, thrown off track.

"They have to, uh, flush the tubing," Michael said, blushing a little. Sara could have kicked herself.

"Sorry," she said. "That's not what I came over to say. I wanted to thank you for bringing me a real blanket."

Michael blushed more brightly. "You're welcome," he said, looking at his feet. "It's, um, from Veronica, actually…I told her you were freezing." Michael's eyes caught hers for just a second.

"Well, thank you," Sara said again. "It's beautiful."

"You're welcome," Michael repeated, looking her in the eyes this time. "Goodnight Sara."

"Goodnight, Michael," Sara said. He smiled at her, and she turned and walked back to her room.

It would be, she decided, a good night.


	12. The Therapists

It was after lunch the next day when the door opened on stretch

It was after lunch the next day when the door opened on stretch. Michael was stretching his triceps behind him when he heard a good natured voice call, "Michael?"

He turned toward the voice to see a short, red-haired woman standing there. She smiled at him, and he knew he was supposed to follow her. He sighed under his breath as he gathered up his feeding pole and rattled out of stretch. Of course they'd steal him out of stretch; the thing he really WANTED to do here.

"Hi Michael, I'm Heather," she said. "I'm your therapist."

Michael forced his feet not to stop. A therapist? He didn't need a therapist; he was perfectly sane. Well, they were in the hallway. He could argue his sanity in a more sane place, like this woman's office.

They turned down another hallway, and Heather opened a door and ushered him in. Michael rattled in, feeling dumb.

"Take a seat," she invited. He plopped down on a small loveseat in front of the window, and Heather seated herself in a chair next to it. He swallowed, feeling self-conscious.

"I don't think I need I need a therapist," Michael said.

"Oh?" Heather said. "And why is that?" She looked interested. Michael wondered what was going on in her head.

"Well…I mean, I'm normal." He believed that. Staunchly. Even though everyone seemed to want to convince him otherwise.

"No one ever said you weren't," Heather replied. "That's not what this is about, Michael."

"It's not?" Michael was surprised. He figured that she would deny his claim.

"No," Heather said. "This is about coping strategies. Everyone's got them; you, me, your brother, your friends. But your coping strategies—the anorexia—have landed you in the hospital. And that means they aren't working."

"I don't have anorexia," Michael said.

"Really." This wasn't a question; there was a healthy flavor of…not sarcasm, exactly, but something similar in Heather's voice. Michael was shocked. Could she do that?

"Yes, really," Michael said.

"So, everyone was wrong to put you up here?" Heather asked.

"Yeah," Michael replied. "I don't belong here. I'm fine."

"Okay," Heather said. "Let me just say I go along with you for a second, okay? Let me ask you a couple questions. When you stand up, have you ever seen black around the edges?"

Michael thought back to all the times he had. His face turned red.

"I'm going to take that as a yes," she said, looking at his flushing cheeks. "How about the fact that even though it's a good seventy five degrees in here, you're wrapped in a winter sweater. Are you cold, Michael?"

Michael was cold. He nodded. "I'm always cold, though," he protested. "That doesn't mean anything."

"But it does," Heather said. "And here's the last thing. When's the last time you ate something?"

"That's not fair!" Michael said. "They stuck a tube down my nose! You wouldn't eat either!"

"But that's the thing, Michael," Heather said, her voice gentling a little. "I would. Especially because I know that the more you eat, the sooner they'll take the tube out. That would make me want to eat everything they put in front of me." Her eyes on his weren't accusing, just honest. "That's the anorexia, Michael. It doesn't want you to eat. It is why you're always cold, why your vital signs are off and you see black sometimes when you stand up too fast. The anorexia is what landed you in the hospital. It is your coping skill…but it is killing you."

"I'm not anorexic…" Michael protested again, but more softly this time. It was sinking in. That book he'd read; it had lied to him. "Oh God."

"No, Michael," Heather said, surprising him. "You're not 'anorexic'. You have anorexia. But it's a coping skill you learned; and it can be unlearned."

Michael sat there, deep in thought. A coping skill. It could be unlearned. But…if he 'unlearned' it…well. He wasn't sure what to do with those thoughts, so he pushed them away instead.

"I don't want to talk about this," he said, staring at his hands.

"Hmm," Heather said. "Alright. How about some more basic stuff, then?"

"Like?" Michael asked warily.

"Like, tell me about your life outside of here," Heather said. "Nothing deep, just the basics."

"Um," Michael said. "I don't know what you want me to talk about."

"Tell me about your family," Heather said.

His family. He could do that.

"Uh…I live with my brother, Linc. Lincoln. He's 23. He's got a son, who's five, my nephew LJ. Lincoln Junior." Michael swallowed and looked to see if this was what she was looking for; she nodded. She was taking notes on a yellow legal pad. "His girlfriend Veronica's kind of like family too, I guess. She's been around as long as I can remember; they've been dating since Linc was in high school."

"Why do you live with your brother?" Heather asked.

"Uh, my mom died when I was seven," Michael said. "Cancer. And my dad walked out before I was born. Lincoln remembers him a little, but I don't. We were in foster care until Lincoln turned 18, and then he got custody of me."

Heather's scribbling became more intense. "How did that happen?" Heather said. "It's unusual for an older sibling to get custody like that."

"Well, there was LJ," Michael said. "The court figured if he had one kid, he could handle another, I guess. And he does." He didn't want Heather to think badly of Lincoln. "He's a good brother."

"How do you do in school, Michael?" Heather asked.

"Good," Michael said. "I get A's." He shrugged.

"Do you like school?" Heather asked, peering up at him.

"It's okay," Michael replied. "I still haven't got any stuff from my school for tutoring. It's a big school, though…I don't know if Lincoln got around to telling them I'm gone yet."

"Hmm," Heather said. "We can check on that when we're done here. You should have something to do during tutoring, since they make you sit there anyway."

"Yeah, I guess," Michael said, staring at his hands.

"How are things going here?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" Michael asked. He met her green eyes warily, wondering if this was a trick question. Her eyes were perfectly open.

"How are things going? How are you adjusting to the hospital? I hear it isn't the easiest thing to adjust to always; how are you finding it? Are you getting along with your roommate? How are the meals going? What do you think of the groups? That kind of thing," Heather explained. She sat comfortably in her chair, waiting for his answers.

Michael thought for a second. This—this was all he'd been thinking about since he'd gotten here. He could practically explode from this question, and yet, that was probably what they wanted. Whoever 'they' were. He took a breath.

"Uh…I get along with Sucre fine," he said. That wasn't really fair to Sucre; he honestly couldn't have asked for a better roommate, but he wasn't going to say that. "But I don't like it here, and I want to go home." There. That was suitably bland.

Heather snorted. Michael's eyes widened.

"Come on, Michael," she said. "You don't like it here? Okay. But tell me the truth. I can see you want to say more than that just from your body language; your hands are practically strangling each other."

Michael looked down at his hands again; he was wringing them tightly. "Shit," he whispered without thinking, then covered his mouth. "Sorry," he said, wondering if he was going to get in trouble for that.

"I've heard way worse than that," she said, waving it off. "I was a sailor once."

Michael's eyes widened, and he examined the lady in front of him. "Really?" he asked.

"Yeah, really," she said. "I was in the Navy. I've heard words you've probably never even dreamed of."

While Michael digested that, Heather sighed. "Come on Michael. Tell me what you really think about it here. Maybe not everything; we don't have the time for that." She smiled wryly. "But tell me something."

Michael couldn't help it; he felt a little bit of his guard coming down around this lady. "All right," he agreed quietly. "I hate this place. I want them to take this goddamn tube out of my nose and stop making me fatter. And I want to go home and help my brother, like I'm supposed to."

Heather scribbled something on her legal pad, then looked Michael in the eyes. "Now that," she said, "is something we can work with." She put her legal pad down, and put out her hand. Michael extended his, and they shook.

"I'll see you in a couple days, okay Michael?"

"Okay," Michael said. She stood, and he followed her lead, clutching at the stupid pole again as she opened her office door and pointed him back towards the dayroom.

He could, he decided, respect that lady, at least. She wasn't going to bullshit him. And that was nice to know.

Michael plopped down on the couch between Sucre and Sara. "I saw the therapist today," he said, kind of into the air because he wasn't sure who to direct it to.

"Therapist?" Sara said.

"Which one?" Sucre asked. Since that was actually a question Michael knew how to answer, he decided to do so.

"Heather?" he said, like a question. Sucre grinned.

"Oh, she's awesome, man. You lucked out," Sucre said. "She's one of the good ones. I see her too."

"One of the good ones?" Sara said. "Who's another good one? I haven't seen a therapist yet." She looked nervous suddenly.

"Pope's good too," Sucre said. "He did group yesterday morning."

Sara bit her lip.

"Don't be nervous, Sara," Michael said, watching her. "It'll be fine."

"I hope so," she said. "I…I mean, I just don't like the idea, that's all."

"It wasn't as bad as it looks on TV," Michael offered. All he'd known of therapy was what he'd seen on TV before, and Heather had been a hundred times better than that. "You don't have to worry, I don't think."

"Sofia sees Pope," Sucre said. "He and Heather usually get the adolescents anyway, so you'll probably end up with one of them. You don't gotta worry too much querida."

But Michael could see she was worrying anyway. He nudged her elbow.

"Save your worries for something more important," he said.

"Like what?" Sara said, still biting her lip.

"Snack," Michael said, fighting a rather morbid grin.

Sara's lips turned up, even though Michael could see she was fighting it. "Michael!" she chided. Sucre batted him on his arm.

"Shut up, coño," he said, but he was grinning too.

A passing nurse said, "Sucre, watch your mouth!" in a lightly accented voice.

"Christina, no one understands anyway," Sucre protested after her.

"Yo entiende!" she called back, sounding like a scolding aunt.

"What did you call me, anyway?" Michael asked.

"Fucker," Sucre said, shrugging.

Michael raised his eyebrows. "Huh. I'll remember that."

The PA crackled on. "Ladies and gentlemen, time for PM snack. Please remove your sweatshirts and roll up your sleeves and come to the dining room. Time for snack."

"See?" Michael said, pulling off his sweater reluctantly.

"Shut up, coño," Sara said, but she was grinning teasingly. Michael's jaw dropped, even as he laughed.

"Chica got a mouth on her," Sucre said. "Better watch this one."

And he was.

After snack, Sara was sitting next to Didi when she heard a deep voice say, "Sara?"

She looked up and saw Dr. Pope standing there, holding her chart.

So Dr. Pope would be her therapist. She looked towards Michael and Sucre; they both nodded at her encouragingly. She swallowed hard. It would be fine. Right?

"Your father hasn't visited yet?" Dr. Pope asked.

Sara squirmed in the chair, drawing her knees to her chest. She shook her head. "He's very busy," she said defensively. Dr. Pope nodded and made a note on his white legal pad; Sara wondered what it said. "He sent his driver with my stuff. It isn't like he forgot about me," she added. She didn't want this man to think poorly of her father, even if she occasionally did.

"Well, it's good that you have your things," Dr. Pope said, smiling at her. Sara clutched her knees tighter, not sure how to respond.

"How are you getting adjusted here?" he asked.

"Okay," Sara said softly. "Everyone's been really nice to me up here." She thought of Michael and Sucre, Sofia and Didi, and the kindness of her nurses.

"I'm glad to hear that," Dr. Pope said. He made a note on his notepad. "Have you been getting used to the meals and snacks too?"

Sara swallowed. "Um…kind of," she said. She thought about the snack she'd just came from; it felt like a ball of lead sitting in her stomach at the moment. "They're not easy or anything…I'm just trying to get that orange bracelet, because Sofia told me things get easier once you get it."

"A lot of patients say that is true," Dr. Pope said. He scrawled something else onto his pad of paper. "It's just one step forward. One step of many."

"Well, anything that gets me closer to going home," Sara said.

Dr. Pope looked up at her. "You want to go home." It wasn't a question.

"That's all I want," Sara said.

"And why is that, Sara?" he asked.

_So I can go back. So I can fix what you have done to me, with all this food and sitting around._ The thoughts hit Sara hard. She felt her eyes widen. She didn't speak, knowing that the doctor wouldn't approve.

He seemed to read her thoughts anyway.

"I think we have a lot of work to do before you'll be ready to go home, Sara," he said softly.

Sara just sat, clinging to her knees in silence. She didn't want to do a lot of work. She just wanted to go home.

"So, what'd you think querida?" Sucre asked when she returned to the dayroom.

Sara collapsed softly into a chair, feeling a little battered. "I don't like it."

"Dr. Pope's nice," Sofia defended. "You don't like him?"

"He's fine," Sara said. "That's not it." She curled in a ball in the chair and set her forehead against her knees.

"What is it?" Michael asked, leaning towards her.

Sara shrugged slightly, then sighed. "I guess…I guess I'm a lot like you, Michael," she said. "I want to go home. And I want them to stop interfering. And they know it. So the chances of that happening…" She trailed off.

"Are not good," Michael finished. He nodded. "I'm sorry, Sara."

They sat together in silence, commiserating.


	13. The Drawings

The next day, after breakfast and group therapy, Michael plopped down on the couch, still feeling angry

The next day, after breakfast and group therapy, Michael plopped down on the couch, still feeling angry.

"What's with the face Michael?" Sofia asked.

"They still won't let me shower!" Michael complained. "I hate this! It's so stupid. I keep telling them I'm not going to fall down; I mean, I haven't fallen yet, but no. They still won't let me shower."

"It happens, you know," Sofia said.

"What does?" Michael asked.

"Falling," Sofia said. "I did, once. They were taking my vitals in the morning, and when I stood up…lights out for Sofia. It was a big deal. I whacked my head and everything." She shrugged. "That's what they don't want."

Michael softened a little. "I know that," he said. "I just…"

"I know," Sofia said. "You just want to shower." She smiled at him. "Just be glad you don't have all this hair. My hair looked so bad after a week without washing…at least with that short hair, you can't tell."

Michael ran his hand through his cropped hair. "Yeah, I guess," he said.

"You guess what?" Sucre asked, sitting down next to him.

"I'm complaining about not being able to shower," Michael said.

"I don't know why you're complaining, Papi," Sucre said. "You aren't the one who's gotta smell you!"

"Sucre!" Sofia said. Michael gave Sucre a push.

"Asshole," he said, but he grinned in spite of himself, knowing his friend was joking.

"See, at least now you're smiling about it," Sucre said.

The PA crackled on. "Time for AM snack. Sweatshirts off, sleeves up, and we'll see you in the dining room."

Michael groaned. "God."

"No use bitching Papi. Come on," Sucre said. "Maybe you could try eating something for once?" His tone was almost, but not quite, wheedling.

Michael didn't bother answering. He stood up and grabbed his feeding pole and rattled into the dining room, along with the other patients.

"Okay, Michael," his nurse, Kim, said. "Let's get this done."

Michael obediently followed her to the counter, where she measured out some OneCal and then took his bag off the IV pole and opened it. She poured it inside, then shut the bag again, and hung it back on the pole. "Alright," she said. "All done."

Michael rattled off, back into the dayroom to the couch. Didi, Sucre, and Sofia were already settled there, so he joined Sara on the loveseat. "Now what?" he asked.

"OT," Sofia said.

"What's today?" Michael asked. "It's not crafts again?"

"No," Sofia said, shaking her head.

"We have to learn something," Didi said. She sounded thoroughly displeased with the idea. Sara laughed.

"Learning's not that terrible, is it Didi?" she asked.

"I'd rather make crafts," Didi said.

Well, Michael supposed when he was nine, he'd rather have made crafts than learn something too.

"Adolescents to the OT room for OT," the PA crackled cheerfully. "See you there!" It popped audibly as it turned off.

The teenagers made their way down the hallway. There were less of them now; two of the girls that Michael had never really spoken to had been discharged yesterday, and a few more adult women had come to take their place. It wasn't that Michael was ignoring the new people exactly…it was just that he had Sara and Sucre and Sofia and Didi, and that was more than enough friends for him.

Hilary smiled at them as they entered the OT room. "Take a seat, take a seat," she said. Michael sat down at the table, settling that stupid pole behind him, and Sara next to him. Didi plopped down next to her at the end of the table, where there was plenty of room for her feeding pole. Sucre sat across from him, and Sofia took the remaining spot at Sucre's right. The other three girls settled at the other end of the table.

"Alright," Hilary said when they were all settled. "So. Today, we're going to talk about your eating disorder as being separate from you. How many of you are familiar with that concept?"

Michael heard some scoffs from the girls down at the far end of the table as they raised their hands; Sofia, Didi, and Sucre also raised theirs. He felt kind of stupid as he left his clutching his elbows.

"Okay. Brianna, why don't you explain a little?"

A girl with hair so blond and a tan so dark they had to be fake said, "Like, we're not the same thing as our eating disorders, right? We're ourselves, and our eating disorders, they're like an enemy or something, and we have to fight them, right?"

Maybe the fact that she spoke all in questions was part of the reason he hung out with Sara, Sofia, Sucre, and Didi too, Michael mused. He didn't think he could handle that particular quality all day without going stark raving mad.

"Exactly," Hilary said, sounding pleased. "So today, what we're going to do is give the enemy a face."

She'd gotten a stack of papers from somewhere, and was passing them out. They were just plain white paper. Michael looked at the assortment of things to draw with on the table.

"I want you to draw your eating disorder, however you see it. Is it male, female? An animal, a person, a thing, a plant? Think about it a little bit, and then start drawing. We have about twenty five minutes, and then we're going to talk about this a little bit, okay? Get started."

He saw Didi's small hand reach out for the markers immediately, and she attacked her piece of paper with a vengeance, but the rest of his friends appeared to just be thinking. As was he.

What his eating disorder looked like? Was she joking? Okay, so maybe, just maybe, Heather had convinced him that he HAD an eating disorder, that it wasn't some ugly misunderstanding that had landed him up here. But other than that…

Well, how did he think of it?

He'd thought it was saving him. Saving him from heart disease…what a laugh, considering he now had some kind of heart problem that his brother wouldn't specify, but apparently he'd caused from not eating enough. And he'd thought it was saving him embarrassment, too; the embarrassment of having to go to the food shelf all the time. Except now he had a fucking tube in his nose, and if that wasn't embarrassing, well…

An idea hit him, and Michael reached for a pencil.

Sara was carefully drawing. She had no idea where this picture had come from; it had just popped into her mind when Hilary had been making suggestions.

She was a dancer; that had gotten all this started. And there was, she supposed, something dancer-like about the figure on the page…but it wasn't exactly what she would have expected.

It looked like a girl, except her feet were roots, and she was most definitely a green plant, planted in a terra cotta pot. But she was lithe and bony, and all grace and fragile green freedom, and naked except for strategically placed greenery.

She wasn't Sara; of that, Sara was sure. She was too thin, too graceful, too tiny, too perfect. She was everything Sara wished she was.

She was Sara's eating disorder.

It seemed to flow from him; angels and demons, fighting an ancient battle, with swords. The angel winning, the demon winning, them wrestling with each other; it spilled across the page like a tattoo. He'd always been good at art; it had always been his easiest 'A' in school. But this…this was like nothing he'd ever done. He felt kind of possessed, like his hand didn't belong to him.

Finally, he dropped the pencil, his hand cramping. He massaged it with his other hand, and looked over at his friends' drawings.

Sara had drawn a plant-woman, bony, green, and graceful. It fit her, and he nodded to himself.

Didi's drawing was of…it looked like it was supposed to be a picture of herself, Michael supposed, but only if Didi had been a hundred pounds overweight. He wondered if that was really how she thought she looked.

Sofia had drawn a ghost-like woman with no legs, floating in a tattered dress, with long tangled black hair and hollow eyes. Michael wondered what the story was behind that.

And Sucre's drawing appeared to be of a perfectly normal Latina woman. Michael wondered what that was all about too.

"Okay, folks, let's finish up here," Hilary said, "and we'll take some time to talk about our drawings, okay?"

"What about you, Fernando?" Hilary asked. "What does your drawing represent?"

Sucre grimaced a little, and Michael could see he was blushing slightly. "This is a picture of my Tía Lupe," he said.

"Your real aunt?" Hilary asked, sounding surprised.

"Yeah," Sucre replied. "I wasn't making fun of your assignment, though, I promise. She's just who popped into my head." He looked kind of embarrassed.

Hilary nodded. "Okay," she said. "Can you explain why?"

Sucre bit his lip. "See, it's like this. You guys all say that the ED says stuff like, "You shouldn't eat that," and "You better eat this," and "You don't deserve that," and treats you bad, and makes you feel bad about stuff that you shouldn't feel bad about, like maybe saying no when Mama asks if you want seconds, yeah?"

"Yeah," Hilary replied encouragingly.

"Okay. Well, that sounds like my Tía Lupe to me." Sucre gritted his teeth a little and looked up at her. "Is that okay?" He looked like a puppy who expected to get smacked by a newspaper at any moment.

"Sounds great to me," Hilary said with a smile. "Thank you Fernando." She turned to Sofia. "Sofia?"

Sofia held up her drawing. "This is my eating disorder," she said softly.

"Can you tell us more?" Hilary asked.

"She's stolen so much from me," Sofia said. "And she's killing me, and I want her to go away, but she's like a ghost. It's hard to make her go."

"Thanks, Sofia," Hilary said. "Didi?"

"I don't want to show mine," Didi said.

"Why not?" Hilary asked.

"Because I'm embarrassed," Didi answered. "It's ugly."

"Eating disorders are ugly," Hilary said. "It's okay to show it in here."

Didi shook her head. "Uh uh," she said, clutching the paper to her chest. It crumpled, but Didi didn't seem to care.

"Okay, Didi," Hilary said after a long moment of quiet. "How about you, Sara?"

"Um," Sara said. "Here's my plant-girl." She held up her drawing.

It was a beautiful picture, Michael decided. Bright-looking.

"And what does it say about your eating disorder?" Hilary asked.

Sara swallowed. "I know I'm supposed to tell you about how I want to kill it," she whispered, "but honestly, I think it's beautiful."

"Your drawing, or your eating disorder?" Hilary asked.

Sara just shrugged. Hilary nodded, almost to herself.

"Okay. Thank you, Sara. And last, but not least, Michael."

Michael held up his drawing, and he heard a gasp from one of the girls he'd never spoken to.

"What does this tell us about your eating disorder, Michael?" Hilary asked.

Michael was suddenly at a loss for words. "I don't know," he said honestly after a moment.

"Well, why did you choose angels and demons?" she prodded.

That, he could answer.

"I was thinking about how there are good things about my eating disorder, and that's the angels, and there are bad things about it, and that's the demons," he explained.

"Ah," Hilary said. "Very thoughtful, Michael." She smiled.

"Okay folks. Now that we've explained them, there's one thing left to do. We're going to tear them up."

Sara felt a jolt in her stomach, like she might be sick. Tear up her drawing? No way!

"Why?" she asked, trying not to whine.

"Well, your eating disorder isn't a friend," Hilary said. "It's an enemy. And now that you've given your enemy a face, you can attack it better. And this is our first line of attack. So go ahead; tear it up."

Around her, people started shredding paper. Sofia tore into hers with a vengeance, and Didi starting ripping away at hers. Even Sucre did, slowly at first, but then building up speed.

She looked at Michael. Michael wasn't ripping his up either. He'd picked it up, in fact, and was holding it protectively. That seemed like a good idea; she cradled hers likewise. Around her, she could hear the sounds of tearing paper.

"Why aren't you two ripping yours up?" Hilary asked in an undertone, crouching between their chairs.

"I like my drawing," Michael said.

"Me too," Sara replied. "I've never drawn anything this cool before. And I'm keeping it." She adjusted her hold on the paper so it wouldn't crumple from her grip.

Hilary looked at them. "What does that say about you and your eating disorder?" she asked gently.

"Nothing," Michael replied, before Sara could. "It just means I like my drawing."

Sara nodded, feeling a twinge of guilt. That was all it meant, right?

"Really?" Hilary asked, in that way that Sara knew meant she didn't agree with them.

"Yes, really," Sara said. "It's a beautiful drawing. And so is Michael's, and he worked hard on his too. I'm not ripping it up."

"Me either," Michael defended.

Hilary looked at them both, and sighed. "Okay," she said. "I can't force you. But I think it would be better if you did."

She walked away. Michael turned and looked at Sara.

"Thank you," he said softly. "I think your drawing is beautiful too."

Sara felt her cheeks flush. "Thanks," she said.

That night, after they were in bed, Sucre was still talking about it.

"I can't believe you, Papi!" he said in a hushed voice. "I mean, really? You didn't tear it up?"

"You know I didn't," Michael repeated. He had it tucked in the bottom drawer of his nightstand, where it was safe from hands that might want to throw it away. "Why should I have?"

"I ripped mine up, and it was a picture of mi tía." Sucre laid out this argument like it was solid gold.

"So?" Michael said. "Sounds like she's a real bitch."

"Si, she is, but still. She's family, man. And I ripped up a picture of her. If mi mama found out, I'd hear about it forever." He could hear Sucre moving around. "Anyway, it's a picture of your eating disorder. Which you're supposed to be here to fight."

"No one asked me if I wanted to be here," Michael said.

There was stark silence from the other side of the curtain. When Sucre finally spoke, he sounded strange. "But you wanna live, don't you Papi?"

"Uh, yeah," Michael said. "Obviously. I'm only fifteen."

"Well, then you gotta fight it," Sucre said solemnly. "Cause if you don't, this thing? This eating disorder thing, it kills people."

Michael knew that. He knew it, in his head…but he still didn't think that could really apply to him. He decided to steer the subject away from that. "I still don't think that has anything to do with me destroying my drawing," he said.

"It's psychological," Sucre said.

"No kidding," Michael replied. "Which means it truly doesn't matter one way or the other."

Sucre made a tsking noise. "I think there's something wrong with your logic, Papi," he said. Michael heard him yawn.

"Go to sleep, Sucre," he said. "You're not going to change my mind."

"You sure are a stubborn one, you know that?" he heard Sucre mumble from the other side of the curtain. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Michael replied softly.


	14. The Case Management

Michael sighed

Michael sighed. Sara was nowhere to be seen; Sucre and Sofia were taking advantage of their orange bands and hanging out in their rooms, and Didi…well, she was nine, and appeared to be involved in a deep, meaningful conversation with her doll. And he was bored.

He looked around. He'd talked to T-Bag and Charles before…they were playing chess, but at the very least, he could watch them. It was, he decided, better than nothing. He grabbed a chair and awkwardly pulled it up to their table, trying to wrangle both the chair and his feeding pole. Both men looked up at his approach.

"Hi Michael," T-Bag drawled. "What are you up to?"

"Nothing," Michael said. "I was just bored. Is it okay if I watch you play?" He felt out of place suddenly.

"Sure," T-Bag said. "Charles here is about to beat the pants off of me anyway." T-Bag bit at a hangnail and watched as Charles made another move.

They played quickly, in silence, and soon enough, T-Bag's king was lying on the board. "I never win this game," he said to Michael. "This old codger's damn good at it."

"Practice, my friend," Charles said. "Many hours of practice." He looked over to Michael. "Where are your friends, anyway?"

Michael shrugged. "I'm not sure," he said. He watched as T-Bag bit off another slice of fingernail. "What, they don't feed you enough here?"

T-Bag looked startled for a second, and then threw back his head and laughed. "Oh, that's a good one," he said, chuckling. "No, you caught me. I'm nervous about case management."

"About what?" Michael said. He'd never heard of 'case management.'

"Case management," Charles said. "You know. When the doctors and the therapists and the nurses and what have you all get together and decide what's to become of us?"

Michael shook his head. No wonder T-Bag was nervous! Now that he knew, he could feel his stomach beginning to flutter with nerves too. "How long does that take?" he asked.

"Most of the morning," T-Bag said. "They're at it right now." He swallowed, and Michael saw his Adam's apple bob in his throat.

"Do they tell us what they decide?" Michael asked. He didn't have a clue what was going on with his health, and he wanted to know what they were planning for him. He hadn't had a choice about it yet, and it didn't look like he was going to get one any time soon. Maybe just knowing something about what might happen would help this whole experience not be so…foreign. Terrifying. Embarrassing. Maybe.

"Oh, yeah," T-Bag said. "After lunch, someone will tell you something."

"I don't know," Charles said to T-Bag. "You think it's the same for the kids?"

"Oh…" T-Bag said. "I didn't think 'bout that." He looked thoughtful.

"They might just call your parents," Charles said. He reached out and patted Michael's shoulder. "But hopefully your parents will tell you stuff, right?"

Michael wondered if Lincoln would tell him anything, or if he'd just leave him in the dark. "I don't know if my brother would tell me anything," he said. "He's not always…I mean…"

"Your brother?" T-Bag asked.

"I live with my brother," Michael said. "He's kind of…well, you'd have to know Linc." He shook his head, trying to clear it. "Do you guys know what news you're waiting for?"

Charles sighed and sat back in his chair. "What I've been waiting for since I got here," he said. "They want my vital signs to stabilize, and my weight to go up a certain amount. I'm on a state hold, though, so it's not like when that happens, everything's fine and dandy. They'll keep me here 'til I hit 22, likely." The man sighed. "It'll be a long time."

"22?" Michael asked. Surely this man was older than 22!

"It's a BMI, not his age," T-Bag said, noticing Michael's confusion. "Your weight versus your height. They want that to be a certain number."

"What's that number?" Michael asked.

To his disappointment, T-Bag shrugged. "It's different for everyone," he said.

"How do you know this stuff?" Michael asked.

T-Bag smiled a little sadly. "Oh, I've been here a few times," he said. "I'm kind of old hat at this by now." He looked at Michael. "You want to get better this time, boy, believe me. You don't want to be like me, popping in and out of here like a yo yo."

Michael looked at the man's thin, sad face, and felt those words somewhere deep in his gut. He nodded.

"Can I take advantage of your knowledge?" he asked. T-Bag chuckled again.

"Go right ahead," he said, clasping his hands behind his neck.

"How long is it going to be before they let me shower?" This was a question that was driving him crazy every morning when they denied him; he was sure he was starting to smell.

T-Bag grinned at him sympathetically. "Poor kid," he said. "Your vitals just have to stabilize a little bit, that's all."

"So I just have to wait?" Michael asked.

Charles nodded sagely, and T-Bag said, "Yep. That's about the long and short of it."

Michael bit back a growl of frustration. He was getting damn sick of waiting.

"Time for AM snack!" the PA crackled. "Sweatshirts off and sleeves up please; we'll see you in the dining room." There was a crunching pop as it went off.

"Ah, yes," Charles said. "One thing we never have to wait very long for." He got up slowly.

"Ain't that the truth," T-Bag replied.

After snack, Michael plopped down on the couch between Sucre and Sara. He turned towards Sucre. "Did you know it was case management day?" he asked.

"Yeah," Sucre said. "Why?"

"Why didn't you say anything?" Michael was frustrated, suddenly with his roommate, and some of that came out in his voice. He knew Sucre heard it too; his expression became defensive.

"Whoa. You never asked, man," Sucre defended. "How was I supposed to know you cared?"

"How was I supposed to know to ask?" Michael asked. "I only showed up, what, four days ago?"

"Okay, okay, don't fight about it," Sara said. "How about somebody clue me in on what you're talking about."

"Case management," Sucre said. "It's when they talk about what's gonna happen with us, in the next week or so. Like, if we get to go home, or uh…go to meal group…" He looked like he was thinking hard. "Stuff like that."

"Meal group?" Michael said. "What's that?"

"You go down to the hospital cafeteria to eat," Sucre said. "I haven't done it yet either, but Sofia has. She said it's okay. You get to pick what you want to eat, anyway."

"And that's today?" Sara asked.

"Yeah. I found out from T-Bag and Charles, before snack," Michael said pointedly.

"I was napping, Papi," Sucre defended. "Give me a break here."

"So, when do we find out what they decide?" Sara asked. She looked nervous suddenly.

"After lunch," Sucre said. Michael nodded.

"That's what T-Bag and Charles said," he added.

"Do you think it's too soon to be hoping to go home?" she asked.

"Yes," Sucre said. Sara crinkled her nose at him. He shrugged. "You asked, querida. They ain't gonna send you home yet; you don't even got an orange band."

She sighed. "I bet I'll get one tomorrow, though," she said. "I've done everything I'm supposed to."

"Still," Sucre said. "Ask T-Bag if you don't believe me. It just ain't how it works."

"Damn," Sara said softly.

Michael couldn't help agreeing with her.

After lunch, when Kara was filling up his feeding bag, she said, "Oh, Michael, I'm supposed to tell you your case management. Do you want to hear it?"

Michael's eyes caught hers, and she smiled. "Of course, that's a silly question, isn't it? Okay." She hung the bag back on the pole. "Let's find a place to sit, alright?"

Michael impatiently followed her down to the end of the hallway, where there were a couple of chairs. She gestured for him to take one, and sat in the other, pulling a piece of paper out of her pocket. "Michael, Michael, Michael…ah, here we go."

Michael tapped his legs impatiently, wondering if she was trying to torture him.

"Well, you've only been here a few days," she said, "so there isn't a lot here for you. Basically, it says that they're still waiting on you to start eating before they're willing to give you any privileges." She smiled at him sympathetically. "Still having a hard time with that?"

"That's not fair!" Michael said. "They're putting it all in a tube! It's the same thing!"

"But it's not, Michael," Kara said gently. "You've got to start trying to eat. I know it's hard—"

"How could you?" Michael asked angrily. Kara didn't say anything for a long moment.

"Could you give it a try, Michael?" she asked. "I'm not saying go in there and suddenly clear your entire plate, although that would be wonderful. I'm just saying, maybe try picking up your fork. Just try something." She looked at him. "It's going to help you get what you want, in the long run."

"And what's that?" Michael asked sarcastically.

"It's going to help you get better," she said, "and that's going to help you go home. And I know that's what you really want."

Michael just sighed. Didn't they understand?

"I'll stop pestering you about it," Kara said finally. "That's pretty much all there is to your case management, though. Oh, and your vital signs have improved slightly…so, as long as they're good tomorrow morning, you'll be allowed to shower."

Michael's head popped up at that. "Really?" he asked. Kara smiled at the excitement in Michael's voice.

"As long as they're still improved tomorrow morning," she repeated. "So that's something to be happy about, right?"

Michael nodded. Around here, he'd take what he could get.

"Sara!" Kim said. "Can I grab you for a second? I have your case management."

Since that was exactly what Sara had been waiting for, rather anxiously, she nodded. "Please," she added.

Kim smiled. "Let's go to your room," she said.

They walked down the adolescent hallway to Sara's and Didi's room, and Kim gestured for Sara to take a seat on her bed. Kim perched on the edge.

"What do you have for me?" Sara asked nervously.

"Not a heck of a lot," Kim replied honestly. "You haven't been here all that long, after all. Let me see." She looked at the folded sheet of paper in her hand. "The doctor anticipates giving you your orange band tomorrow, as long as you keep on track with your meals. So that's a good thing, right?"

Sara let out a sigh of relief. "I can't wait to use the bathroom by myself," she admitted.

"A little bit of stage fright?" Kim asked knowingly. Sara nodded.

"Yeah, that orange band is nice. Um, let's see what else. Your vitals haven't improved like the doctors would like to see, so we're still keeping an eye on that. Other than that, they'll reassess on Monday, after the weekend."

"Reassess on Monday?" Sara repeated.

"Yep. Case management is twice a week, on Mondays and Thursdays, so on Monday, they'll take another look at things."

Sara hid her disappointment. Sucre had told her not to get her hopes up, and honestly, she'd known better too. No way they would have sent her home so early.

"Thanks, Kim," she said.

"No problem, dear," Kim said. "Now, come on back out to the day room. You don't have that orange band yet!"

Not yet, Sara thought…but tomorrow. She smiled.

Michael heard the ringing…and then Lincoln's rough voice. "Hello?" he said.

"Hey Linc," Michael said. "It's me."

"Michael. How're you doing?" Lincoln's voice sounded a little bit strained, and Michael's stomach tightened. Was Lincoln angry at him, or was something else the cause of that strain? He had no idea. He wished he could see his brother's face, so he could get a better idea.

"I'm okay," Michael said. "I…I wish I was at home."

"I know, bud," Lincoln said. Michael was surprised; he'd been expecting something harsher than that as response.

"I got my case management," Michael said after there was a long silence.

"Yeah, they called me," Lincoln replied. "They said your vitals are getting a little better; that's good, huh?"

"Yeah," Michael said. "They said I can shower tomorrow. I can't believe I'm excited that I'll get to shower, but after almost five days…"

"I bet your roommate will be happy about that too," Lincoln said, and Michael could practically see his brother's grin.

"Jerk," Michael said, but not with any malice. "Yeah, he'll be happy that I'm not bitching about not being able to shower anymore."

Lincoln's voice took on a more serious tone. "They want you to start eating too, Michael," he said. Michael felt his stomach tense up.

"I know that," he said. "It's not that easy, Lincoln."

He heard Lincoln sigh. "I…I guess I don't get that, Michael," he said.

"Please, Linc. I don't want to talk about this," Michael said as his stomach twisted some more.

To his surprise, his brother said, "Okay." And that was it.

Michael took a deep breath. "Kiss LJ for me, okay?"

"Okay," Lincoln replied. "Love you, Mike."

"Love you," Michael replied.

He hung up the phone and wrapped his arms around himself, thinking hard.

"Hi. Dad?"

"Sara? I got your case management today." Her father's voice was crisp. She bit her lip hard, feeling tears come to her eyes.

"How about a 'Hi, Sara, how are you doing?'" Sara suggested. "I've been in the hospital for four days now, and you haven't come and visited me."

"I've been very busy Sara. You did not choose a convenient time to make yourself ill."

Sara felt as though she'd been hit in the stomach. "To MAKE myself ill?"

"Well, what would you call it? You caused this. And from the looks of things, you'll be in the hospital for awhile." She heard him sigh. "You heard about your case management already?"

"Yes," Sara replied, forcing herself to become numb.

"Good. Listen, I have some bills that I need to read over. You do what they tell you, Sara, and get yourself better to get out of there, you hear me? The last thing I need right now is the press catching wind of this." She heard his phone beep. "I need to take this. I'll talk to you later."

Before she could respond, she heard the dial tone. She dropped the phone from nerveless fingers and let it fall into the receiver.

She hated him. Pure and simple.


	15. The Most Obvious Hurdle

"I don't know why everyone's giving me all this flack about not eating," Kira said, clutching at her skinny arms

"I don't know why everyone's giving me all this flack about not eating," Kira said, clutching at her skinny arms. "I mean, I'm not the only one here who doesn't eat. What about him? He doesn't eat!" She pointed at Michael. "Or her? Didi's been her for like, what? Three weeks, I heard? I don't see anyone giving her shit about not eating!"

Sara felt Didi stiffen next to her, and she looked over to the little girl. Big tears were welling up in her brown eyes. Shit.

"What, you'll pick on me, but not her?" Kira challenged Dr. Pope. "Why's that? Why don't you tell her she HAS to eat? She's been here longer than me!"

Didi started to cry earnestly now, and Sara bit back the angry words she wanted to spew at that bitchy older girl. Instead, she turned to Didi. "Shh. It's okay," she muttered. "Don't listen to her, honey."

"It's okay, querida," she heard Sofia's voice say from Didi's other side softly.

"She's calling me fat!" Didi whimpered.

Sara could see where Didi got that; she'd been here longer; therefore, she was 'fatter' than this other girl. But she knew it wasn't true.

"No, Didi. I swear to God, that's not true," she said, as Sofia replied with a burst of Spanish that sounded like it had a similar soothing intent. "No, querida," Sofia finished. "It's not true." Sofia wrapped her arms around Didi's little shoulders and pulled her into a hug. "It's not."

Sara left her hand on Didi's arm as Sofia rocked the little girl back and forth. She could hear Didi crying in Sofia's arms.

Sara just happened to look up and catch Michael, fidgeting and watching them. He looked terribly conflicted. She wondered what was going on behind those beautiful and tortured-looking turquoise eyes.

There was something…and later, she'd find out what it was.

"Ai, man, I gotta piss," Sucre said. "Where the hell are those aides?" He stuck his head back in the hallway.

Michael laid on his bed on his stomach. "They'll get here when they get here," he said mildly. "You know that Bellick's not exactly the fastest fellow."

"No kidding, but he doesn't have to be slower than the proverbial mule…" Sucre paced back into the room. "That was a hell of a scene in group this morning, huh?"

"No kidding," Michael said, rolling over. He was careful not to tangle himself in the tube. "Poor Didi. That Kira is really a bitch."

"She better start eating, or she's gonna end up with a tube too," Sucre said. "She's not gonna be so smug then."

Michael shrugged. "Once the feeling like they shoved a fork down your throat goes away, it's not so bad," he said.

Sucre squared off at the end of his bed. "Oh no," he said. "You're not gonna be like that, are you?"

"Like what?" Michael asked.

"One of those people who gets all attached to the damn thing? Sofia said her old roommate was like that; said it took her eons to start eating."

Michael opened his mouth to protest, but Sucre plowed on.

"You know you gotta eat something sooner or later—"

"I know, Sucre! Sheesh, you sound like that fucking doctor!" Who had been bothering Michael about eating not too long before.

The two boys stared at each other for a long moment before Bellick came in, breaking the silence.

"Need the bathroom in here?" he said gruffly. Michael stood up stiffly, and awkwardly made his way past Sucre and into the bathroom.

Michael sat at his place at the plexiglass table and sighed, looking back at the clock again. Dear God, thirty minutes was a long time to just sit there and do nothing. He looked down at the untouched tray in front of him. The food actually looked pretty good; he had to admit that. From what he'd heard about hospital fare, anyway. It was an egg salad sandwich and cold vegetables, a small bowl of strawberries, and a piece of pumpkin pie with whipped cream. Not that he'd ever touch that; he knew better. But the rest of it…well, his head wanted it anyway. It was hard for him to have to just stare it down for half an hour. But he'd been doing it for nearly a week now. Willpower; that's what the books called it. And Michael knew he had that.

He thought back to his case management. They really wouldn't give him any privileges until he started eating? But it seemed like such a failure to him. Like all his hard work, like everything he'd done, like it had all been for nothing. And he'd worked hard. Damn hard. How could he just give that up? Not to mention that his stomach was still right there, in front of him, mocking him. Accusing him. He swore it had already grown bigger in five days from all the calories they'd pumped down that tube…how could he willingly add to that? He couldn't. Plain and simple. He wasn't going to help them make him fatter. He sighed.

He looked down the table to Sofia, who was very carefully cutting her strawberries into four even pieces before putting one fourth into her mouth. It was a very neat process, and looked extremely labor-intensive. His eyes flitted to Sucre, who was next to her, who appeared to be eating like a normal human being…except for the fact that he was chewing, and chewing, and chewing. Michael wondered if that hurt his jaw. T-Bag was picking at his egg-salad sandwich with a tormented look in his eyes; Michael knew the man was terrified of mayonnaise. He had a feeling, from T-Bag's face, that he'd be getting a replacement for that today. T-Bag saw him looking, and smiled at him crookedly with a little shrug. "What'cha gonna do?" he asked quietly.

Michael shrugged back. Obviously he didn't know; he'd never even touched the damn thing.

Charles just wasn't eating, much like Michael, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked sad and tired. Michael wondered if he looked like that too.

He listened to the sounds of the forks and spoons scraping, the small spattering of conversation, the sounds of intensive chewing and swallowing. He watched the clock, as the minutes ticked by, ever so slowly. Three minutes left…two minutes…one…

"Time's up!" Louis called.

Thank God.

Michael rattled into the dayroom. He saw Sucre sitting on the couch, for once by himself, and made his way over to him.

"Listen, man, I'm sorry about earlier," Michael said awkwardly. "I, uh…shouldn't have snapped at you like that."

Sucre shrugged and gestured at the couch next to him. "It's okay, man. I get it," he said.

Michael sat down. "You get it?" he repeated.

"Yeah, I get it," Sucre said. "You're scared."

That wasn't quite the word Michael would have used, but…

"It's…It's hard," Michael said. "I just…" He trailed off.

"I'm telling you man, I get it." Sucre turned slightly so he was facing Michael. "You're scared. You think if you eat, you're gonna get fat. You think it's like giving up on all this work you did, and you don't want to be a quitter."

Michael looked at Sucre, feeling something akin to amazement. "How the hell did you—"

"I told you, Papi," Sucre said patiently. "I get it. We might look different, up here—I know I ain't super-skinny, like some of you guys—but we're all scared of the same things, or else we wouldn't be up here."

Michael nodded slowly, his mind moving a hundred miles an hour.

Michael stretched his triceps behind his back, still thinking about what Sucre had said earlier. They were all afraid…but Sucre did it. Sara did it. Even super-tiny Sofia did it. So Michael could do it…but God. Should he? If he did it, well…what would that mean?

"What's going on in that head of yours?" Sucre asked in an undertone as they switched to another stretch.

Michael sighed. "Should I try it?" he asked.

"Try what?" Sucre asked in return, glancing over at his friend.

Michael bit his lip, and let his eyes meet Sucre's. "Eating," he said softly.

Sucre looked like he wanted to roll his eyes, and was managing not to by an extreme force of will. "Uh, yeah Papi. That's what you're here for, ain't it?" he asked rhetorically.

Michael's voice dropped even lower. "I'm not sure I can do it," he admitted.

Sucre nodded. "You can," he said. "We'll cheer you on."

And as cheesy as that sounded, Michael didn't tell him no, because he was pretty sure he'd need every bit of encouragement he could get.

Sucre had told her that Michael was going to try, tonight. Sara felt nervous for him. And judging by the tension in Michael's face and neck, he felt nervous himself.

"It'll be okay, Michael," she said as she carefully settled herself next to him on the couch.

"What will?" Michael asked, sounding distracted.

"Dinner," she said. His eyes shot suddenly to hers.

"How'd you hear about that?" he asked, his tone accusing.

"Sucre told me. And before you go off to strangle him, he was just trying to help." She touched Michael's arm lightly. "So don't get mad at him."

Michael's eyes softened. "I wish I hadn't said I try it," he said quietly. "I don't think I can do it." He seemed to plead with her.

"You can," she said. She wished she had something more powerful to say to him, but unfortunately, nothing breathtaking was coming to mind. "Just…try something easy. Or easier."

Michael nodded, but she could still see the tension in his jaw.

"We can talk after dinner, if you want. And during it, if I'm sitting by you," Sara offered, not having anything else to give him.

Michael gave her a half smile. "Thanks, Sara," he said. She impulsively squeezed his arm.

The PA crackled on. "Time for dinner, everyone! Sweatshirts off and sleeves rolled up; it's time for dinner!"

"Showtime," Michael said under his breath.

Michael sat down in front of his tray, and watched as the others did likewise. He sighed with relief when Sara sat down on his right. She smiled at him. "Looks like it's your lucky night, Michael," she said. He couldn't help but smile back. She didn't even know.

Sucre was across the table from her, and he winked at Michael. "What did you do, bribe a nurse or something?" Michael asked.

"For what?" another familiar voice asked, and then T-Bag plopped down directly across from Michael. It was almost enough to make him laugh.

He looked down at his tray again, and then took a deep breath, and lifted the lid. Macaroni and cheese, carrot rounds. Milk, a piece of chocolate cake, and a small bowl of watermelon chunks. Oh God. He felt his face go white at the sight of all that food. There was no way in hell he could do this! What had he even been thinking, to say he could? He bit his lip hard.

"You don't have to do it all," Sara whispered. It was so quiet, Michael wondered if he had even really heard it. He turned his head towards her. "Just try something easy, remember?"

Easy. Easy. Around him, he heard the sounds of people beginning to eat. Slowly, with a trembling hand, he reached for his fork. It felt heavy in his fingertips. Could he really do this? He almost set down the fork…and then Sara nudged his knee with hers.

It was just a little contact, just a small nudge…but it was the push he needed. He stabbed a carrot round with his fork, and brought it to his mouth.

He took a bite. Not a big bite, but a bite. It was just a carrot. But it was the first thing he had voluntarily put in his mouth since he had arrived in the hospital. He chewed it, and chewed it, and finally, he swallowed. He saw Sucre grin.

"See?" he said. "Told ya."

And it didn't kill him, so he speared another round of carrot and put it in his mouth. He could at least do the vegetables, he decided. There was nothing to fear from a half a cup of cooked carrots, right? Okay, so maybe he didn't quite believe that yet…but he did know that if he didn't eat them, they would just put the equivalent down his tube. So he might as well eat them. The rationalization calmed his whirling brain slightly. He chewed the carrot slowly, enjoying the taste.

It took him the entire half an hour to eat his way through the carrots. He could have eaten them faster, but he hadn't wanted to; he'd wanted to really enjoy them. If he was going to let himself eat something, he was going to really enjoy it, he decided. Not scarf it down. He suddenly understood why Sucre chewed everything so many times.

It wasn't until after they'd filled his bag again, after his nurse had whispered, "Good job, Michael," and his friends had given him half-hugs and light back slaps, and he was heading back into the dayroom that the guilt hit, and hit hard.

And before Michael knew what was happening, he was curled up in the corner of the couch, his knees clutched to his chest, and he was sobbing.


	16. The Guilt

Sara saw Michael's face change first, as he sat down next to her on the couch, and then his body, as he suddenly curled up into himself, balling up as small as he could get

Sara saw Michael's face change first, as he sat down next to her on the couch, and then his body, as he suddenly curled up into himself, balling up as small as he could get. And then she heard the sobs as the ball that was Michael began to shake.

She reacted before she could think. "Michael? Michael, are you okay?" A stupid question; obviously he wasn't okay. She scooted closer, and put her hand on his back. He was shuddering.

"What's going on?" Sucre asked from behind her. She shook her head desperately.

"I don't know," she replied. Instinctually, she put her arms around Michael, wishing she could shield him from whatever was making him cry like this. "Michael, it's okay."

Suddenly, Sucre was up and around, standing behind the couch. "Papi, what's going on?" he asked, his hand dropping lightly onto Michael's shoulder. "Talk to me, man."

"I shouldn't have done it," Michael mumbled into his knees. "God, I shouldn't have done it."

It clicked for Sara instantly, and from the look on Sucre's face, he got it too. "No! Papi, you should have done it. Don't listen to the ED, man. It's a good thing, I swear." Sucre gave Michael's shoulder a little shake. "You listening to me?"

Sara just hugged Michael tighter, not knowing what to say. She knew what he meant; she'd had a similar attack of guilt the first time she'd eaten something here. "It gets better, Michael," she whispered finally. "It's not so hard the next time, I swear it's not."

Suddenly, behind her, she heard an unfamiliar female voice say, "Michael? Is everything okay?"

Michael's head popped up, and his tear-streaked face looked stricken. "Veronica?" he said.

Sara let go of him, and Sucre released his shoulders as Michael tried to wipe the tears off his face. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

"We came to visit," this woman, Veronica, said. "Linc and LJ are over there. What's going on, Mike?"

Michael looked like the last thing he wanted to do was say anything, but Sucre solved that for him.

"He feels guilty," Sucre said matter-of-factly. "For eating."

"Sucre!" Michael hissed, just as Veronica said, "You ate, Michael?" She sounded pleased.

Michael burst into tears again, and suddenly, he was gone, bolting as fast as he could considering he had to drag that feeding tube with him. Veronica looked stunned.

Sara glared at Sucre. "Good going, moron," she said. "Didn't you think maybe he'd want to tell his family on his own time?"

From Sucre's stricken face, it was obvious that no, he hadn't thought at all.

Lincoln saw Michael jump up—and to his surprise, the teen crashed across the floor, dragging that feeding pole after him. Lincoln released LJ's hand with a quick, "Stay there buddy," and moved to intercept his brother.

It wasn't hard; Michael's mobility was severely limited by that damn pole. Lincoln grabbed his arms and said, "Hey! Where the hell do you think you're going?"

Michael's eyes met Lincoln's with shock, then anger. "Let go of me!" Michael yelled, trying to pull out of his brother's grasp. "Let me go!"

"No," Lincoln said coldly. "Not until you explain what's going on."

Lincoln didn't expect the thrashing kick that seemed to come from nowhere and connected hard with his shin. Surprise, even more then pain, made him release Michael, who moved faster than Lincoln would have thought possible.

Lincoln recovered after mere seconds and turned, bursting after his brother. He'd take that little shit down, feeding tube or no feeding tube!

It was the feeding tube, ultimately, that led to Michael's demise. The elevators were too slow, and there was no way he could navigate the stairs with that stupid pole, and the time he spent trying to figure out how to disconnect it was enough time for Lincoln to crash into him.

They both ploughed into the wall, Lincoln wrapping his arms around his frail brother as a sort of cushion. Michael fought like a wildcat, but Lincoln was ready this time.

"Stop it, Michael!" Lincoln said. "You're just going to hurt yourself! Knock it off!" He kept his arms around his brother like a vise, pinning him between the wall and his own strong body. He was aware, peripherally, of Veronica holding LJ, of the nurses, of other people watching, but at the moment, this was just about him and Michael. "Come on, Mike. Just relax," he said more calmly, still holding his brother in vice-like arms.

He could feel Michael shaking. "Let me go, Linc!" he pleaded. "Please!" Now it wasn't anger he heard in his brother's voice, so much as resignation. "Please, let me go!"

He lowered his voice. "I can't, Mike," he said into his brother's ear. He'd lost his anger somewhere, and now he was just concerned.

"Please!" Michael begged. "Please, Linc!" He felt his brother's slight weight sag then, and he knew he'd given up—for now—as he started to cry.

"Shh," Lincoln muttered. He was never good with Michael's tears. "What are you running from, Mike?"

Michael just sobbed. Lincoln held him, and looked over his shoulder at the crowd. His eyes met with Veronica's; hers looked sad and frightened. Then, they met with unfamiliar brown eyes.

"Okay folks, move on," the woman's voice said. "Nothing to see here." She made shooing motions at the people standing around, and to Lincoln's surprise, they obediently shuffled off, leaving only him and Michael and Veronica and LJ in a small cluster by the elevators. The nurse came up to him.

"I'm Kim, by the way," she said. "Let's get him back to his room, hmm? I don't think you folks need an audience right now."

Michael couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so weak, so out of control. Lincoln practically carried him into his room, and Michael didn't even have the energy to fight it anymore. What was there to fight? He'd lost the biggest battle as soon as he'd put that first carrot in his mouth. That was when the battle had died. More tears sprung to his eyes.

Lincoln seated himself on a chair right next to his bed; Veronica just perched on the end of it, holding LJ in her lap.

"What's going on, Michael?" Kim asked. "You did so well at dinner."

Those words just made Michael want to scream. His fists balled up before he could seem to stop himself. "Stop saying that!" he yelled. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw LJ jerk and look surprised, and immediately, he felt guilty.

"What happened at dinner?" Lincoln asked.

The fury Michael felt at himself bubbled over. He jumped up off his bed, facing off with his brother.

"What happened at dinner? I was weak. I lost control. I ate. Goddamn it, I actually ate something. And now, I just want to fucking…fucking….ahh!" Michael threw himself at the wall, landing a solid punch that made his hand throb.

Lincoln grabbed him before he could land another. "Knock it off!" he hissed, grabbing both of Michael's wrists. "You're going to hurt yourself."

"Good!" Michael fired back. "I deserve it! Fucking weak idiot!"

"Michael, don't—" Veronica's soft voice wheedled. He turned his head towards her, since Lincoln had his arms.

"No. I failed. You guys don't understand! Well, I might have fucked up once, but I'm not going to do it again!"

"Are you saying you're not gonna eat again?" Lincoln asked. "Because if that's what you're saying, you better think again, Michael." Lincoln's voice was cold again, that deadly cold it got sometimes when Michael was in big trouble. Michael steeled himself. What was Lincoln going to do about it?

"You can't make me," Michael replied, his voice getting louder. He saw Lincoln's face contort.

"Wait a second, folks," Kim said, before Lincoln could explode. "Let's not do anything rash here. Michael, I know you're upset and you're feeling guilty, and your eating disorder is really mad at you and giving you a really hard time right now. But you need to know that even though your eating disorder is really really unhappy with you, you did the right thing tonight. You took a step in the right direction; towards freedom, and health, and being happy again. Sleep on this, okay? When you wake up tomorrow, things might look different."

She turned to Lincoln. "And I know that you're concerned about Michael's behavior, but when someone takes a big swing at their eating disorder like this, it often takes a big swing back. It just takes time and patience; threats and fear are not productive, even though they might feel that way in the moment. Try to be patient and understanding; he did a big thing tonight, and it has him, and his eating disorder, scared." Kim patted Michael's shoulder, and even though he probably should have felt patronized, he didn't. "I'm proud of you, Michael."

Michael looked at her; she smiled at him. "You and your family want to visit now?"

Michael felt Lincoln's hands loosening around his wrists; he nodded slowly. He wasn't actually sure if he wanted to visit with his family, but he also didn't know if he had a choice. Kim seemed to see that on his face.

"Okay," Kim said. "Just holler if you need me." She disappeared out the door.

There was a long, stark silence. Michael felt awkward. He was hyper-aware of Veronica sitting and watching him warily, of LJ and his five year old confusion, and of Lincoln, who if Michael was reading the situation correctly, was about ready to beat him.

Lincoln let go of his wrists completely. Michael glanced at his brother's hands. They were nervously wringing each other.

"Michael," Lincoln said.

"Linc, please," Michael replied. He didn't want to listen to Lincoln threaten him or yell at him any more; it wasn't like it would change his mind anyway.

Michael looked at Lincoln, who sighed at him. "Truce?" Lincoln asked. His eyes were wary.

Michael nodded. "Alright," he replied. He sat back down on his bed.

He wondered if his family would ever understand. Hell, he wondered if he would ever understand.

"Sucre'd been pushing me, and I knew I'd have to do it sometime, so…I ate." Michael looked up at Heather, to see how she'd take the news.

The smile on her face looked genuinely glad. "Good job, Michael. How'd that feel?"

Michael dropped his hands between his knees and looked at his feet for a long moment, thinking about it. It was, he supposed, a good question.

"I was scared, at first," he said, "and then, when Sara was smiling at me, and Sucre was whispering happy-sounding stuff in Spanish, I was proud of myself, you know? That sounds stupid, I guess, but I mean, I wasn't going to do it, and then I did it anyway, and so I was proud of that…" His voice trailed off as he thought.

"That doesn't sound stupid to me," Heather said.

Michael nodded, and continued.

"And I was okay when everyone was congratulating me and stuff…and then, the nurses started filling up my bag." Michael remembered that moment clearly.

He'd gotten a jolt in his stomach. Somehow, he'd thought, however illogically, that if he ate, they wouldn't fill that bag. He explained that to Heather.

"Well, you didn't eat everything on your plate," Heather reminded him.

"I know," Michael said, "and I knew I'd still get replaced, I guess, but…I don't know. It just hit me hard. And suddenly, I…I freaked out."

He sighed, remembering. "I walked out to the couch, and Sara was there, but I kind of ignored her…she's probably mad at me…and I sat down, and suddenly, it was like, everything hit me at once."

Even thinking about it, he started to shake. He felt Heather's eyes on him.

"Stay with me, Michael," she said. "What was going on in your head, then?"

Words just started tumbling out of Michael's mouth, uncontrolled. "Stupid. Fat. God, what a fuck-up. I'd ruined it all, everything. With one bite, I'd just fucked everything up. I should just die. I should just fucking die." Michael suddenly realized he was speaking out loud. To a therapist. He gritted his teeth and looked up at her with wide eyes.

To his surprise, Heather was just nodding. Her eyes met his. "Your eating disorder was angry at you for eating, wasn't it?" she said.

Michael looked away. His nurse had said something like that too…but that wasn't what it had felt like to him last night. It had felt like he had been the ultimate failure.

"Michael, when you start fighting back against your eating disorder, like you did last night, it doesn't just say, 'Oh, okay,' and pack its bags. It fights back." Heather looked at him. "Those things 'you' said to yourself last night? That was your eating disorder hanging on for dear life."

Michael swallowed hard. "When does that stop? How do I stop that?"

Heather smiled at him sympathetically. "You keep fighting. You keep doing what you need to do."

Michael gave her a look. "You mean I have to keep eating, don't you?" There was no small amount of sarcasm in his voice.

"That's the only way out, Michael," Heather said. "Through."

Michael sighed.

He sat at the table.

"The only way out is through." Heather's words, but they were echoing in his mind. He stared down at the mashed potatoes and gravy, the turkey, the green beans, and the pineapple. Slowly, his hands went to his carton of milk and he opened it.

This is so stupid, he thought. I can't do this. He stared bleakly at the carton of milk.

"You keep doing what you need to do."

Do I really need to do this? They'll put it in the tube; it's the same thing either way, Michael argued with himself.

"But it's not; you've got to start trying to eat." Kara's voice this time, echoing through his brain.

He sighed, and picked up the carton of milk, and slowly, took a drink. It wasn't really eating, he told himself. It was drinking. It didn't count.

His brain wasn't fooled, but he tried anyway, slowly sipping at the milk. The guilt kept pushing at his mind, but he forced himself to think of Heather's words. "The only way out is through."

He drank the last bit of it, and met Sucre's eyes over the top of the milk carton. Sucre nodded at him with a little half grin; Michael nodded back.

He'd done it. And the guilt was still there…but so was he.


	17. The Stairwell

"You know, it would be a lot easier to eat," Michael said, "if they weren't always running this tube

"You know, it would be a lot easier to eat," Michael said, "if they weren't always running this tube."

His stomach felt nauseatingly full, all the time. He had been used to feeling hungry; he'd actually kind of liked it, after awhile. To Michael, that had meant he was doing something right, if he was hungry. And now, he was never hungry.

"When did they say they'd stop running it?" Sara asked.

Michael shook his head. "They said I have to eat everything, and, well…" Michael gave her a half smile. He wasn't there yet. He'd been trying to eat something at every meal and snack now, though, and Sara, Sucre, and Sofia always gave him as much support as he could ask for…but it wasn't always enough to push him past his own guilt, and his own full stomach. "I'm just so full. They've got this damn tube going all the time."

"Ugh, I know. I always feel like I'm going to burp or something and it's all going to come back up." Sara blushed slightly. "That's really gross. Sorry."

Michael shrugged. "Whatever. This place; I've lost all modesty."

Sara sighed and leaned her head back against the back of the couch. She drew her knees into her chest and clutched her arms around them protectively. "The dietician talked with me today."

Michael heard her tone change slightly; she sounded frightened. He turned towards her. "Yeah?" he said, questioning.

"Yeah." Sara's voice was soft. "They upped my mealplan." She bit her lower lip.

Michael clenched his teeth. "Sorry," he said awkwardly.

He knew the dieticians did that, often. They'd increase a mealplan, if you were losing weight or not gaining weight. Megan, the dietician who'd cornered him on one of his first days, had explained it to him.

"Your body often gets really excited when you start feeding it again, and it kicks into overdrive, so it sometimes takes quite a bit of food to restore weight. It depends on individual body chemistry," she'd said, never losing that smile he'd found so grating.

"I just don't get it," she said. "All I'm doing is sitting around. How can I just be sitting around and eating, and they have to make me eat more?" Sara's eyes met Michael's, and there was a frightened, pleading expression in them. "Don't they get that I'm a dancer? I'm supposed to be thin!"

Michael didn't know what to say to that. She didn't look any different to him than she'd looked when they'd met a week ago, but he didn't know if he should say that or not.

"Did you ever talk with Megan about the whole metabolism thing?" he asked instead.

Sara nodded slowly. "Yeah," she said. "But…I mean. I just don't trust…" Sara sighed, and looked at Michael. "I'm scared they're going to make me fat, you know?"

Her eyes bored into him.

Michael nodded. "Yeah," he said. "I know what you mean."

"Eat it, Michael," Lincoln said. "Do it, now." He was standing at the other end of the long table, which was piled with food—hot fudge sundaes, cookies, cakes, pies, pizza, hamburgers, macaroni and cheese, and so many other foods Michael hadn't touched in ages. "Eat it all, or else you can't come home."

Michael stared at his brother. "Lincoln, please," he said. "I can't."

"You have to," Lincoln replied. And suddenly, Veronica was by his side, holding LJ. "You have to, Michael."

"No!" Michael said. He turned away from the table.

Megan came up to him. "Michael, you have to eat this. We're not going to let you leave until you eat it." She gave him a push back towards the table.

He jarred against the table. Food fell off of it, and hit the floor.

"Better start eating, Michael," Kim said. "It's not going anywhere."

He looked back at the table, and flinched. The amount of food had doubled. The table was sagging under the weight of it, and the staff from the hospital were piling more dishes around the edges and on the floor.

"Come on, Michael," he heard Bob's voice say. "Best get started."

"Go on, Micheal," he heard Lincoln say again, and he felt his brother's hand on his back, pushing him inexorably towards the table. He struggled, but Lincoln was too strong for him, and before he could do anything, he was being shoved INTO the pile of food, and then the food was swallowing him.

"NO!" Michael cried. "Stop!"

"Papi? You okay?"

Michael woke with a start, breathing hard. He swallowed. "Sucre?" he whispered.

"Yeah. You okay?" Sucre sounded concerned. "You were like, talking in your sleep."

Michael felt himself flushing in the darkness of their room. "Nightmare," he replied, feeling stupid. Who had nightmares like that? "What time is it?"

"Uh…like three in the morning," Sucre said after a pause.

"Shit. Sorry I woke you up," Michael said.

"S'okay," Sucre said. "Gotta shake hands with the president anyway."

Michael heard Sucre hit the call light, and a few minutes later, an aide came and opened the bathroom door.

He heard Sucre put the lock back on the door, and shuffle back across to his bed. "You still up, Papi?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah," Michael replied.

There was another little pause. "You wanna talk about it?" Sucre offered. "Since I'm not sleeping anyway?"

Michael half-smiled in spite of himself. "It sounds really stupid," he said.

"Try me," Sucre said. His voice was slightly muffled from the other side of the curtain, but Michael could hear interest in it.

Michael swallowed, then turned onto his back, threading his fingers behind his head.

"I was, uh," Michael said haltingly, "dreaming about food." He let out a little snort.

Sucre didn't say anything, and after a moment, Michael continued on.

"Lincoln kept telling me to eat, and the food kept, like, multiplying," Michael said. "And then all the staff people were telling me to eat too, and I tried to run away or something, and Lincoln pushed me into the table, and the food like, ate me." He forced himself to let out a dry laugh. It sounded more like a cough. "Stupid, huh?"

Sucre didn't say anything for a long moment, and for a second, Michael wondered if his roommate had fallen asleep. "Sucre?" he asked hesitantly.

"It's not stupid," Sucre said, and Michael jumped from surprise. His bed squeaked from the movement.

"You, uh…you don't think so?" Michael asked, feeling a little surprised.

"Uh uh. I had those kind of dreams too," Sucre said. "Not exactly like that, but kind of." He heard Sucre's bed creaking as Sucre changed position.

"Really?" Now Michael was intrigued. "Like what?"

He heard Sucre swallow in the darkness. "I dreamt that I was purging, and it was like normal, and then there was suddenly blood…blood everywhere. And I was, like, really freaked out, and I tried to stop, but I couldn't, and I was like drowning…" He trailed off. "It was way freaky. I stopped purging for almost a week after that, 'cause I was scared it was like a sign or something."

"So. These kind of dreams are normal, then?" Michael asked.

"I guess," Sucre said. "I mean, you know." He sounded kind of uncomfortable. "Sort of. I guess."

Michael made himself comfortable on his side, thinking about it. He'd never had those kind of dreams before he'd been in the hospital…but then again, why would he? No one was forcing him to eat before he'd landed in the hospital.

Suddenly, he realized that the silence had been long. "'Night Sucre," he said quietly into the darkness. "Thanks."

"Yeah. 'Night, man."

Michael listened to the whir-swish of formula moving down his feeding tube, and tried to think about something other than his nightmares.

Sara sat in the dayroom, feeling miserable. Her new mealplan was absolutely obnoxious. She'd noticed the extra food right away. What were they trying to do to her, make her gain five pounds a DAY? She let out a small moan.

"You okay Sara?" Michael asked, sitting down next to her. His shoulder touched hers. To her surprise, she felt tears jump to her eyes, and she shook her head slowly.

"What's wrong?" he asked quietly.

"Did you see that snack?" she replied. "My breakfast was smaller than that yesterday. Oh my God, Michael. They're stuffing me! I'm going to weigh 200 pounds by the time they let me out of here!"

"Hey guys, no food talk," one of the passing nurses said gently. Sara felt the tears in her eyes spill over onto her cheeks. No food talk? How was she supposed to not talk about food when that was all she could even think about?

"Hey. It's okay," Michael said awkwardly.

"No," she said. "No, it's not." Her hair spilled into her face, and more tears fell down her cheeks. Sara just wanted to scream.

She saw Michael looking around out of the corner of her eye. Then, his hand closed gently around her wrist. "Come with me," he said quietly.

"What?" Sara said.

"Come on. Quickly." He stood up. She stood too, curious.

He led her down the hallway past the nurses desk at a good pace. She wanted to ask what he was doing; it wasn't exactly stated that they weren't allowed down this way, but the elevators were this way, and the patients were supposed to stay in the dayroom. "Michael?" she asked.

"Come on," he said.

They ended up ducking into the stairwell. The door shut behind them with a bang. There was hardly room on the landing for her, Michael, and his feeding pole. She laughed, momentarily distracted.

"Are we escaping, Michael?" she asked.

"Not exactly," he said. He seated himself on the floor, and gestured for her to do the same. "We're just taking a moment. So you can talk, without them stopping you."

"In a staircase?" she said. Her voice echoed slightly.

"Who's going to take the stairs all the way to the eighth floor?" Michael asked.

Good point, Sara thought. She smiled at him. It was a weak smile, but better than nothing.

"I thought of it the other day," Michael said. "When Linc and I…well, you know." He ducked his head, and Sara saw his ears turn pink.

"Yeah," Sara said. There was a long silence. She finally broke it.

"Thanks. For um…distracting me," she said. "I just…God. I can't believe how much they want me to eat, you know?"

Michael nodded in acknowledgement. She sniffed, and pushed on.

"It just…I feel so fat anyway. I mean, all I'm doing is like, sitting around. At home, I exercise every day. I'm a dancer." She looked at him, wanting him to understand what that meant. "All the other girls in my class are like half my size. And I can't help being so damn tall…but I thought I could fix being fat! And now, they're ruining everything!" Sara felt herself start crying again.

"You…you're not fat," Michael said. He sounded so awkward. His hand touched hers, though, and she let her cold fingers thread into his without thinking about it.

"Yeah, not now," Sara said. "But what are they going to make me into?" She looked at him through bleary eyes. His eyes looked back at her, worried. Still hollowed, and worried about her. She felt guilt. Her eyes dropped to their hands.

They were holding hands. It startled her, to realize it…but she didn't pull away.

"I've gained weight since I've been here," Michael said. She realized he was looking at their hands together too. She wondered what he saw there. "I know I have; I can feel the difference in how my clothes lay and stuff. The dietician told me you put on weight a lot faster with a tube, too." He let out a breath. "It's scary as hell, huh?"

Sara nodded. "This isn't what I wanted," she whispered.

"Me either," Michael said. She felt him shift positions a little so their shoulders were touching. "I thought I was going to get healthy, save some money. Linc and I didn't have a lot, you know? Figured if I ate less…And then, something changed. I really don't know how it happened."

Sara licked her lips. "I just wanted to prove to the other girls in my dance class that I was as good of a dancer as they were…and that if I couldn't be as petite as they were, I could be as thin as they were. But I'm not really good at starving myself; and I guess if you, you know, purge, it screws up the electrolyte levels in your body or something. I passed out at dance practice. I don't think my dad would have ever done anything if I hadn't." She heard the bitterness in her own voice, but didn't stop it.

"You don't get along with your dad, do you?" Michael asked mildly.

Sara just shook her head. She couldn't explain how she felt about her father; how she wanted him to love her, and how she felt like she hated him sometimes, but she just wanted his approval. "It's complicated," she said finally.

Michael sighed. "Family is," he said, and Sara got the idea he knew what he was talking about.

They sat together in silence for a while. Sara enjoyed the feeling of his hand in hers; his fingertips were cold against hers, but there was a tangible comfort between them anyway.

"We should probably get back before they notice we're gone," Michael said, breaking the silence reluctantly. Sara sighed.

"Yeah…if they found our hiding spot, we couldn't use it again," Sara remarked, not really thinking.

Michael turned and looked at her. She saw a little smile that he was trying to supress.

"So we might use it again, Miss Tancredi?" he asked. His voice was teasing.

Sara felt herself blush. "Maybe," she replied. "Come on. Before we get caught."

That night, as she lay in bed, Sara thought about how they'd sat in the stairwell that afternoon, just talking, his cold hand in hers.

It was probably, she thought, a very bad idea to have a crush on a boy you met in treatment. A very bad idea.

But hey. She'd had worse ideas in her lifetime.

He liked her. And judging from how she'd put her hand in his as they'd sat in the stairwell that afternoon, and the way she'd blushed when he'd teased her about her mis-spoken words, she liked him back.

Well. Miracles did happen.

Michael smiled to himself as he crawled under the covers.


	18. The Crazy Things

Michael heard rapid-fire Spanish, and a gasp, then giggling

Michael heard rapid-fire Spanish, and a gasp, then giggling. Sofia held her stomach, shaking her head.

"What?" Michael asked, sitting down on the loveseat, and gesturing for Sara to take the other seat. He made sure his feeding pole was out of the flow of traffic before turning his attention to his friends.

They scooted down closer to the edge of the couch by the loveseat, and Sucre raised an eyebrow while lowering his voice. "Were you guys paying attention during lunch?" he asked conspiratorially.

"To what?" Michael asked. He'd been busy poking at the limp-looking hamburger on his plate, trying to convince himself it would be okay to eat. He'd gotten through about half of it. "I was kind of busy."

"Apparently, you weren't the only one," Sofia said.

"What are you talking about?" Sara asked.

Sucre bit his lower lip and gave Sofia a sidelong glance. "Well?" he asked.

"You say it," she said.

"Say what?" Michael said.

"We both saw it. Someone's been socking their fats," Sucre said dramatically.

It fell kind of flat. "What?" Sara asked after a long pause. "What does that mean?"

"Socking their fats," Sofia repeated. "One of the girls is, like, socking her butter."

"Socking?" Michael repeated.

"Okay. So here's the whole story," Sucre said. He cleared his throat and leaned forward, dropping his voice even lower. The other teenagers leaned in closer to hear him.

"I was sitting across the table from her, and I was kind of poking at my potatoes, yeah? And I just happened to look across the table…and I see her slide her butter onto her finger. And I'm thinking, okay, whatever, everyone's got their own little things they do with their food, and who am I to judge, right?" Sucre looked around, catching his friends' eyes. "And then suddenly, I see her do it."

He paused dramatically, until Michael said, "Come on man, tell the story!"

"Okay, okay!" Sucre said. "She was sitting with her foot tucked on her lap, and suddenly, she stuck her butter-covered finger inside her shoe, like, in the instep. And when she pulled it out, the butter was gone."

"She left the butter in her shoe?" Sara hissed.

"Yeah," Sucre said. "Isn't that gross?" He shuddered theatrically. "Can you imagine what her shoes look like at the end of the day?"

"Oh, that's gross," Michael repeated.

Sofia giggled. "She'd be like, 'squish, squish, squish.'"

Sara covered her mouth. "Sofia!" she scolded, but Michael heard laughter from behind her hand.

"You're sure?" Michael asked. "I mean, you know that's what happened?" He looked at Sucre.

"I have two good eyes," Sucre said. "Plus, then I told Sofia, and she saw it too, at snack."

"Yeah, she did it with her peanut butter too," Sofia said.

Sara shook her head, her eyes wide with amazement. "How does the staff not notice?" she asked. "I mean, the tables are clear. You think they'd see."

"They're watching twenty people," Michael said. "You'd just have to wait until they were looking away, I guess." He shook his head too. "But man. How gross to be walking around with butter and peanut butter and shit like that in your shoes all day."

The four of them sat there, contemplating it for a moment. Finally, Sara said, "So, who is it?"

Sucre raised his eyebrows. "Guess," he said.

Michael started to think about the other patients. It was a female, so that let T-Bag and Charles out of it…but other than that, it was wide open. Someone who wore shoes. Who wore shoes around here? Most of the patients wore flip flops or slippers, but neither of those would be conducive to 'socking' one's butter…and Sucre wouldn't have called it 'socking' if they didn't wear socks too.

"Uh…is it Mary?" Sara guessed. Sucre shook his head.

She wore slip-on RocketDogs and white sport socks, and college sweat pants every day. "Gretchen," he said.

Sofia's eyebrows raised, while Sucre's eyes narrowed. "You saw her, didn't you Papi?" he said. Michael shook his head.

"Really? It's Gretchen?" Sara asked. "But she's so…clean."

Michael laughed first, followed by the rest of them. Sara tried to defend herself.

"I just mean that I couldn't see her doing that! She'd get her socks dirty!" she protested. She pushed Michael's shoulder good-naturedly. "You know what I meant!"

"I guess she's not worried about dirty socks," Sucre said.

They all heard the rattle, followed by Didi's voice. "Who's not worried about dirty socks?"

"No one, querida," Sofia said. "Come on. Sit with us." She patted the empty place next to her on the sofa, and made a 'cut it out' motion with her hand.

After all, Didi was only 9. They didn't need to be teaching her any tricks to get away with things, and God only knows if she'd think Gretchen's idea of 'socking' her butter was a good one.

Michael took the last bite of animal cracker just as the nurses' assistant at the head of the table said, "Time's up,", feeling sick. He'd eaten the entire snack. He'd done it. And he hated himself for it. He took a deep breath through his nose as he finished chewing the cracker, and let it slide down his throat. Oh man.

But he and Sara had been talking about how much he wanted to get rid of that stupid tube, and as far as either of them could see, the only way to get rid of it was to eat everything. And to drink his replacements, if he had them…which he'd started to do too. Sara had warned him the replacements were disgusting, but he hadn't been completely prepared for exactly how disgusting. It wasn't exactly the flavor, Michael had decided. It was more the consistency. Like swallowing a frog. An extremely slimy frog.

"The straw helps with that," Sara had told him helpfully. It was true, but still. He always thought of butterscotch-pudding flavored frogs when he had to drink it.

He tried to keep deep breathing, to force the anxiety away like Heather had taught him, but it seemed to stay with him. Not getting worse, but not getting any better either. He wanted to move; to run, to walk, to DO something. And he wasn't supposed to do anything.

Well, there had to be something he could DO around here, if he was creative. He'd find it. The nurse okayed him to go, and Michael picked up his garbage and left the dining room.

He picked up another stack of the magazines that dozens of patients had looked through and cut pieces out of, trying to decide if there were enough actual pages left to leave if in the stack or if he should throw it away. He'd already tossed over thirty magazines.

None of these magazines were the kind of ones anyone would probably look at at home, Michael reflected. There were no 'People' magazines, no 'Health' magazines, or 'Times' or anything like that. It was all 'This Old House' and other home decorating sorts of magazines, 'National Geographics', and that sort of thing.

"What are you doing, Michael?" he heard Sara say from behind his shoulder. He startled slightly, pulled out of his thoughts.

"Why don't they have any good magazines here?" he asked, plopping a pile of the tattered home decorating magazines on the floor. "I mean, sheesh."

"I know," Sara said. "I wanted to read 'Glamour' so bad, and they told me I couldn't have it, because it was "pro-anorexic." She made the quotation marks with her fingers. "I mean, really?"

Ahh. Well, that explained why all the magazines here were magazines that didn't have any pictures of people in them, at least…

Michael sighed and pulled more of the tattered magazines out onto his lap, quickly deciding which ones to keep and which ones to throw.

"What are you doing, anyway?" Sara repeated, sitting down next to him. He could feel her knee touching his as she folded her legs Indian-style.

"Cleaning," Michael replied. "I'm trying to distract myself after that stupid snack."

"Ah," Sara said. "I know what you mean. Let me help."

She leaned over him to grab a stack of the magazines and pull them in front of her, and they sorted in companionable silence for awile. Michael reached again, and pulled another stack.

With it, came an awful smell. "Ugh," Michael said, sniffing. "Do you smell that?" It smelled like alcohol…like really, really cheap alcohol. He turned towards Sara.

She wrinkled her nose. "That's disgusting," she said. "Is it…?"

She leaned across him again, and grasped the last of the stack of magazines and pushed it aside, and then let out a little, girlie squeal that Michael thought was kind of cute. "Oh my God," she yelped. "Michael, what is that?"

He looked at the shriveled, black thing she'd uncovered under the stack of magazines, and bit his lower lip. "Uh," he said, "I think…"

He grabbed a piece of paper that had fluttered loose from a magazine and used it to prod the object, which squished softly. He heard Sara say, "Ugh."

"I think," Michael said, spotting what he thought might be a stem, "that it might be an apple."

"Oh gross," Sara said.

"Yeah." Michael said. He looked at her, then poked it again. It made another squishing noise.

Sara started to giggle first, but Michael wasn't far after. An apple? Hidden under a huge pile of magazines, until it started to ferment? What the hell kind of madness was this?

He felt Sara's face fall against his shoulder as she laughed helplessly, and it was a nice feeling. He felt almost breathless by the time he managed to fight off the laughter.

"Oh my God," Sara said. "I can't believe this place!" Her eyes met his, and she shook her head, but her smile was real. Michael enjoyed it. He smiled back.

"What are you two doing?" Gina's voice barged into their little moment. "Come on, you guys. I think you've done enough cleaning up for one day. Put that stuff where it belongs and go sit on the couch, alright?"

They burst into laughter again, and Michael couldn't help but wonder, as he and Sara gathered up the piles to throw away (including the rotten apple) if Gina was wondering what on earth they had to laugh about.

"Seriously, Sucre," Michael said into the dark. "It was an entire apple, hidden under a stack of magazines."

"Ah, that's nothing, ese," Sucre said. Michael heard him chuckle. "Sofia used to have this roommate, right? And the chick was like, crazy. Always sneaking food out of the dining room; up her sleeves, down her shirt, in her hair—'pparently, chica had some big hair, I dunno. Anyway, so Sofia couldn't figure out what the hell she was doing with all of it, right? She wasn't flushing it, though, 'cause the nurses were still watching her pee and all that, so that was a no go."

"So what was she doing with it?" Michael asked, wondering if maybe the apple he'd found had been one of this crazy roommate's old leavings.

Sucre snorted. "So, Sofia ran out of mouthwash one night, and she asked this chick if she could use hers, and the girl was like, "NO!" and she went all crazy on her…and when Sofia asked her why not? The crazy girl had emptied out her mouthwash and was stashing food in the damn thing! It was crammed with like, cookies and graham crackers and shit like that!"

Michael felt his mouth drop open. "So…what happened to that girl?" he asked finally, contemplating the mass of food crammed into a Listerine bottle. That was ingenious, if disgusting, he had to admit.

"Ay," Sucre said. "Sofia swore they sent her to a psych ward eventually, 'cause she wrote some kind of scary note…she said the bitch was crazy."

"Probably no crazier than anyone else here," Michael said, thinking about some of the things he'd done in the name of his eating disorder. He turned onto his back and slid his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.

"Speak for yourself, Papi," Sucre huffed into the darkness.

"I am," Michael replied softly. He sighed. "I am."


	19. The Hard Work

"Hi Michael," Heather said

"Hi Michael," Heather said. "Take a seat. I'll be with you in just a second." She smiled at him as she clicked at something on her computer screen. Michael wheeled his feeding tube pole over towards the couch he usually sat on and made himself comfortable.

"How are things going for you, Sara?" Dr. Pope asked conversationally as she found a comfortable position in a plaid overstuffed chair.

"Okay," she said, pulling her knees to her chest. She rested her chin on the top of them, and watched him make a note at the top of his legal pad.

"Just okay, huh?" he asked her.

"Yeah," she replied, nodding slightly.

He nodded back, and Sara felt herself relax slightly. "So last time we were talking a little about your dancing. What would you like to discuss today?"

"I'm so sick of this," Michael said.

"Sick of what?" Heather asked.

"Being here. This stupid thing," Michael said, gesturing at the pole he had to push around with him everywhere. "I mean, I've been eating stuff. Doesn't that count for anything?"

"It does," Heather said. "I've heard you're doing really well with that actually."

"I'm sick of eating too." Michael replied with a sigh. "I'm eating as much as I can; I've eaten EVERYTHING they've given me for the last day and a half or so. And I drank the replacements before that. And God knows I'm gaining weight," he said, looking down at his stomach, which seemed to be roughly the size of a prize winning giant watermelon from a state fair, and just as dense.

"How do you feel about that?" Heather asked.

"About what?" Michael asked. "Gaining weight?"

"Yes," Heather replied.

He sighed again, and folded his arms protectively over his stomach. "I know that…I mean, everyone keeps telling me that I can't trust what I see in the mirror, and all that stuff…but God. And my stomach always feels so full, you know? That doesn't help either; it really makes me feel like a pig, that they make me keep eating when I'm already stuffed." He lapsed into silence again.

"But you've kept pushing forward, Michael. It's been what? Almost two whole days without replacements now? That's really quite an acomplishment. You should be proud of that." Heather leaned forward. "So, what's kept you fighting? Because, ultimately, it's been your decision to keep fighting, Michael, every time you step into the dining room."

Michael swallowed, thinking about Lincoln, LJ, and Veronica, and how much he had worried them. "Well…my family," Michael said. "They really want me to get better."

"Okay," Heather said, nodding encouragingly.

"And…and my friends, too. Here," Michael added. "Sofia, and Sucre, and Sara. And even little Didi, in her way," he added, after a moment of thought. "They've helped a lot."

"How have they helped?" Heather queried.

"Well…like, Sofia always has a story to distract you, if you're having a bad time, and Sucre's a great roommate, and Sara…" Michael took a breath. "Sara helps me feel like, like a normal person, you know? Not like a freak, sitting in a hospital with a tube in my nose." Michael looked away.

Heather sighed. "You're not a freak, Michael."

Michael looked up at Heather. Did she mean those words, he wondered. Her eyes met his steadily. Finally, he gave a single nod. He gestured towards his feeding tube, efficiently changing the subject. "So when are they going to get rid of it?"

Heather raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips contemplatively. "Hmm. Well…I'll bring it up in case management, but really, it's up to Dr. Mahone."

Michael shook his head. "I'll never be rid of it, then," he argued.

"That, I would say, is a highly exaggerative statement," Heather replied, her voice deadpan.

"He hates me, though," Michael replied.

"What makes you think that he hates you?" Heather replied.

"Who knows. Just because I had the stupid idea to give myself an eating disorder…" Michael let that statement roll into nothingness.

"Hmm. You 'had the idea to give yourself an eating disorder?''' Heather repeated.

"Well, yeah," Michael said. "I mean, kind of. I guess."

"Can you expound on that?" Heather asked gently.

"I told my dad I wanted a personal trainer."

"What did he say to that?" Pope asked her, peering at her over his half-glasses.

Sara sucked on her lips for a moment, remembering. "He thought it was a good idea," she said. "Said it would help me not to get fat like my mother. More or less," she amended. After all, those hadn't been his exact words.

"Linc…he got so mad at me for going to the food shelf, but we didn't really have the money for the food, and I figured I could kill two birds with one stone, you know?"

"So you were trying to help your family," Heather suggested.

"Yeah…well, sort of," Michael admitted. "I was trying to make it easier for myself too. Because it just wasn't worth all the trouble to go there, if I could help it." He shook his head, remembering how Lincoln had slapped him. "And then, I heard in health class that you're not supposed to be able to pinch an inch, because that's unhealthy, and I could, and—"

"You heard WHAT?" Heather interrupted.

"That if you can pinch an inch, you'll get heart disease and stuff. It's true," Michael said, seeing her eyes widen disbelievingly. "My textbook said so. And I'm fated to die of heart disease, because look." Michael pulled up his shirt and pinched an inch of fat from his stomach.

"Michael, that's skin," Heather said, giving him a look.

"It's fat," he insisted. "No one has an inch of skin."

"Actually, it's very common. It's just skin, not fat." She shook her head. "That's another cognitive distortion, Michael."

Michael stared down at the few inches of stomach he'd bared contemplatively. It looked like fat to him. "A cognitive distortion?" he repeated.

"What you see is not always what you get," Heather told him.

"I just wanted to be…" Sara said. She trailed off. It sounded stupid.

Dr. Pope looked at her. "Just wanted to be what?" he asked.

She sighed. "A better dancer. The best dancer. And thinner. The thinnest." It did sound stupid, when she said it out loud…but in her head, it made so much sense.

The doctor just nodded, for her to continue on, so she did.

"I mean, the other girls were making fun of me, for being so tall, and I couldn't change that…but I could make myself thinner, and I could make myself a better dancer. And I just wanted to do that. I wanted to show them."

"Show them what?" Dr. Pope asked.

Sara frowned. "I…I don't know. That I was…That I could…" She trailed off.

She really wasn't sure.

"My eyes are perfectly fine," Michael said. "My vision's twenty-twenty."

"But it doesn't have anything to do with your eyes, Michael. It has to do with your mind." Heather leaned forward in her chair. "You see your body through the perceptions of your mind. If you're having an awful day; you and Lincoln are fighting, and you did poorly on a test, say, and LJ doesn't want to cooperate with your plans to get your homework done—those things contribute to what you see in the mirror."

"That doesn't make sense," Michael said.

"Doesn't it?" Heather asked. "Have you ever had a day where everything was going how you wanted it to?"

Michael had, of course; everyone had. "Sure," he offered, nodding. "So?"

"So, try to think. How'd you look, when you looked in the mirror that day?" Heather asked.

"Well, I must have looked good," Michael said, "or else it wouldn't have been that kind of day."

"Ahh. Except…you have it backwards. You looked good because your perceptions of yourself weren't so harsh on that day. Whereas on a day where nothing's going right, and you're mad at the world, and you feel like you hate everyone, including and perhaps especially, yourself…well, you'll see nothing in the mirror except everything you hate."

Michael sat in silence for a long, long time, staring at his hands.

"What are you thinking?" Heather asked, after a few minutes.

"So…what's the real picture, then?" Michael asked. "What do I really look like? What I see when I see myself at my thinnest? Or at my fattest? Or somewhere in between? What's real?"

"I hate my body, okay?" Sara said. "That's it. And I wanted to fix it. Because it's ugly and it's too big and I'm too tall and too fat, like my mom, my dad even said that, and…" She buried her face in her knees, feeling tears rising to her eyes. Desperately, she tried to push them back, but they had a mind of their own, spilling down her cheeks and soaking into the knees of her pants.

She could hear Dr. Pope moving around, and felt something nudge her knee. She hesitantly raised her head. He was holding out a box of Kleenex towards her, a caring expression on his face.

"Thanks," she sniffed, taking them from him. She blew her nose.

"You're really feeling down about yourself."

She nodded.

"What good does that do, Sara?" Dr. Pope asked softly.

"Huh?" Sara said. She looked up. He tilted his head.

"What good does it do, to make all those judgments about yourself?" he repeated.

"Judgments? Those aren't judgments; those are facts!" Sara said vehemently.

"A fact can be empirically proven, Sara. But what is 'too' big? What is 'ugly'? What you find ugly, I may find attractive. What is too big for one thing may be too small for another." He looked her straight in the eye. "How about, "I don't feel comfortable with my body?"

Sara felt startled. She blinked a few times. "I don't," she said. "I really don't feel comfortable in my body. I don't like it. I hate it."

Dr. Pope nodded, and looked at her. "Can we work on re-phrasing those judgments, when they come up?" he asked.

Sara sniffed, thinking. "I guess," she said, finally.

Dr. Pope smiled at her. "Good work, Sara," he said softly.

Michael felt drained. He looked at Heather.

"I'll see you again in a day or two," Heather said, getting to her feet. "You're doing well, Michael."

"Thanks," Michael said. He stood up, and wheeled his pole past Heather and out of her office.

"They make me so tired," Sara said. 'It's like trying to swim through Jello or something."

"What?" Michael said. She turned her head in time to see him slowly sink down next to her into the loveseat. "What's like trying to swim through Jello?"

"Therapy sessions," she replied. "I'm sure I'm fine, until I get in there, and then all of the sudden, Dr. Pope gets me crying like a baby all over his dumpy overstuffed plaid chair."

Michael chuckled weakly. "I hear you," he replied into her ear. "Heather sure can put me through the wringer."

"Who knew," Sara said softly, "that sitting and talking for an hour was such damn hard work?"


	20. The Orange Band

Dr

Dr. Mahone finished examining Michael's feet. "No edema; that's a good sign," he said. "You can sit up."

Michael sat up, letting his shirt fall down to cover his stomach. He watched as Dr. Mahone made a few notes in his chart.

"Well, Michael, things are really starting to look good here for you," Mahone said, looking up. "And it's officially been three whole days without replacements, according to your nurses. Is that true?"

Michael nodded, tapping his fingers against his legs.

"Well, good. Good for you," Dr. Mahone said. He actually smiled at Michael, and Michael found himself smiling back before he thought better of it. "So, I suppose it's time for your orange band."

"My orange band?" Michael echoed.

"Yes," Dr. Mahone replied. "I'd say you've earned it." He nodded to Michael. "I'm sure you've heard all about it, but do you have any questions?"

Michael shook his head mutely. He couldn't believe it. He was getting an orange band? Seriously? He'd never thought this would happen, ever.

"Okay then. You can go up to the nurses' desk and tell them Dr. Mahone approved an orange band for you," Dr. Mahone said.

Michael stood up, and reached for his feeding pole. Dr. Mahone's eyebrows raised.

"Oh, wait a second, Michael," he said. Michael froze. Now the other shoe would drop, he thought. He knew Dr. Mahone hated him.

But the doctor just smiled at him again.

"I think we could get rid of that pole during the day, too," he said. "You haven't been taking replacements in it, so it's really not necessary. We could just run it at night, as a supplemental feeding."

"What does that mean, exactly?" Michael asked. "Would you take the tube out?"

"Not yet," Dr. Mahone said. "But I think we could detach it from the pole during the day, and just run it at night, like we do with our adult patients with an NG tube, since you've been eating, and were willing to drink the replacements. As long as you continue to do that, we can keep it to just being ran at night. How does that sound?" Dr. Mahone studied him.

Michael nodded slowly. "Okay. Yeah. That sounds…that sounds really good," he said. It wasn't perfect, but it was way better than having to drag that stupid feeding pole around everywhere. "Thank you."

"It was all you, Michael," Dr. Mahone said. "Now, go on. Get your orange band, and I'll find your nurse and tell her the good news."

"Congratulations, Michael," Gina said as he rolled himself up to the nurses' desk. "Dr. Mahone told me that you get your orange band today AND we're going to disconnect you from that feeding pole. Are you excited?"

Michael blushed. "I feel kind of silly, making such a big deal about it," he said.

"It's a big deal, Michael," she said. She pulled out a drawer, and removed an orange band from inside. "Which wrist do you want it on?"

Michael held out his wrist automatically, and Gina carefully secured it. "Is that comfortable?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, shaking his wrist. The plastic-coated band slid around it. "It's good."

"Good," she said. "Now, you're a free man, Michael."

Michael smirked. "Free?" he said.

"Well, at least you won't have someone watching you in the bathroom, anymore. Come on. Let's see if we can't make you a little free-er." She came out from behind the nurses' desk. "It'll only take a second to get you disconnected from that pole. Let's go down to your room."

Michael grinned, and turned and led the way.

Michael could see Sara's auburn hair as he snuck up behind her place on the loveseat. He placed his hands lightly on her shoulders. "Hey," he said softly.

"Michael?" Sara said. She twisted around. "Hey. I didn't hear you coming—oh!" She sat up straighter as Michael came around the side of the loveseat and plopped down easily next to her. "The pole! It's gone!"

Michael felt an easy grin split his face. "Yeah, it's gone," he said. He pulled his knees up to his chin and grasped them with his hands. "And look."

"You got your orange band too? Oh my God, Michael, that's great!"

She threw her arms around him before he had a chance to react; to even uncurl his body, effectively pinning his entire body between himself and her. He could feel her chest pressing into his knees for one second, her small breasts touching against the back of his hands, and then—

"Ai, getting friendly, hmm querida?" he heard Sofia tease Sara.

"Papi, you never told me. I'm shattered," Sucre said to Michael as they both sat down on the larger couch. Didi sat between them, clutching her doll in one hand.

Sara popped away from him immediately, blushing. "Look. Michael got his orange band!" She grabbed Michael's banded wrist and held it up as proof.

"Hey," Sucre said. "Look at that. Papi got his orange band." Sucre's eyes met his. "Congrats."

"Thanks, Sucre," Michael said. "And the pole's gone too. Well, except for nights, I guess, but during the days, at least."

"That's really great, Michael," Sofia said.

"How'd you do it?" Didi asked. She hugged her doll to her chest with both arms, staring at Michael's orange banded wrist.

Sofia's eyes met his first, then Sucre's. Michael felt the pressure from his friends here. He knew why: this little girl had been here for ages, and still hadn't eaten anything. He took a deep breath. "Do what?" he asked.

"Get rid of the pole," Didi said. She looked up at him through long black eyelashes.

Michael met her gaze. "I did it a little bit at a time," Michael said honestly. "I drank my replacements, instead of having them put them in the bag…you do that sometimes, right?" He saw Didi nod, and he nodded back. "Okay. And I ate. Just a little bit, at first—like, I drank my milk, or I ate my carrots…and when that got easier, I ate a little more. And eventually, I was eating everything." He looked at Didi. "I know that makes it sound really easy, but it wasn't. It took me a long time. I've been here for a few weeks, now, and I only just got it. And Sofia and Sucre and Sara all helped me do it."

"How?" Didi asked. She looked a little bit suspicious, and not completely convinced.

"They encouraged me," Michael said. He looked at her. The way she was looking at him right now reminded him somehow of LJ, and how he would look at Michael, expecting him to be able to fix things. God, he wished he could fix this for her. "Sofia and Sucre and Sara and I will encourage you too, you know. If you want to try it."

Didi looked down at her doll's brown, unblinking face. She looked thoughtful, and sad.

"It's really nice to get rid of that pole," Michael said.

"I'm…I'm not sure," Didi mumbled.

"It's scary to start, hmm querida?" Sofia asked. She put her hand on Didi's shoulder. Didi nodded, leaning into the older girl's side.

"Well," Michael said, "know that when you do start, we'll all be there to cheer you on, okay?"

Didi's eyes met his again. "Okay," she whispered.

The P.A. crackled on. "Snack time, everyone, it's time for P.M. snack. Please take off your sweatshirts, roll up your sleeves, and meet us in the dining room. It's time for snack."

"That hour seems a lot longer now," Michael said into Sara's ear as they sat together on the loveseat.

"Now that you have your orange band?" Sara asked, letting her hand drape against his, their hands not exactly linked, but touching, as close to a public display of affection as they were willing to display in front of the nurses.

"Yeah," Michael said. "Has it been an hour yet?" he asked.

Sara looked up at the clock on the wall. "Almost," she said, looking over at him. His eyes were closed, and he was leaning back comfortably against the back of the loveseat. "Why?"

"Because," Michael said, "I was thinking that once it's been an hour, maybe we could sneak off to the stairwell?" He kept his voice low, so Sucre and Sofia wouldn't hear.

"Sure," Sara said. She smiled to herself as Michael opened his pretty turquoise eyes to peek at the clock.

"It's close enough," he said to Sara. He sat forward, and she watched him take in the room around them. "Come on."

She felt that little rush as they snuck past the nurses' desk and down the hallway to the stairwell, but as usual, they were unnoticed, except by Sofia, who merely winked at her when she caught Sara's eye. Sheesh. Well, Sara decided, it was okay if their friends knew. After all, it wasn't like they were really doing anything.

She let out a small sigh of relief, though, when the door shut with a small thud behind them. Michael slid down to the floor, letting his legs splay out straight in front of him.

Sara settled next to him and leaned into his shoulder. She felt Michael's ribs move as he took a deep breath, and then his arm settled around her, and it was sweet and warm and comfortable, and nowhere near as awkward as she thought it could have been.

"Are you comfortable?" he asked her quietly.

"Yeah," she replied, nodding. She leaned her head against his shoulder. It was a bony shoulder, but not as bony as it had looked a few weeks ago, and she managed to find a comfortable position.

"You were good earlier," Sara said. "With Didi," she added, when Michael didn't say anything.

She felt Michael's bones shift as he shrugged slightly. "I just told her the truth," he said. His voice lowered a little bit. "She reminded me of LJ, sort of. How he looks at me sometimes, when he just knows I can fix something…I didn't want to tell her that I couldn't fix it."

Sara's heart swelled. "Oh, Michael," she said, feeling herself smile.

She looked up at him, and noticed that he was blushing. God, he was cute when he blushed.

They sat in companionable silence for awhile.

"You know," Sara said finally, breaking the silence, "it's a lot nicer out here when it's just the two of us." She sat up a little so she could see Michael's face more easily. Michael's arm tightened around her shoulder.

"The two of us?" Michael queried, looking at her upturned face.

Sara smiled mischievously. "Yeah, without your feeding pole."

Michael chuckled, the movement making both of them jerk a little.

She wrapped her free arm around him, feeling content.

She wasn't sure how long they sat like that together, but she felt herself starting to doze off when she heard a nurse's voice, uncomfortably close, say, "Has anyone seen Michael?"

She felt Michael's torso stiffen, and she looked up at him. He put his free hand to his mouth in a 'shh' gesture.

"I think he went to his room," she heard Sofia's voice say. Sara's eyes met Michael's.

"I looked down there already," the nurse replied, but her voice was farther away. Sara listened to the squeak of her shoes as she walked away.

She didn't relax until Michael did. "C'mon," he said, standing carefully. He reached out his hand to help her up, and she took it. "We better get back."

"Thank God for Sofia," Sara replied. "They sure know how to ruin a moment, huh?"

Michael took her hand in his, and peered out the door. With a yank, they were back in the hallway, and walking as fast as they could for the main lounge area, trying to remain inconspicuous. She breathed a sigh of relief when they made it back to the loveseat they'd vacated earlier without being stopped or noticed.

"It's okay," Michael said. He was slightly out of breath as he turned to her, but his eyes were twinkling. "We'll have more moments."

And Sara looked into his eyes, and she believed him.


	21. The Pair

Sara heard the P

Sara heard the P.A. calling them to breakfast crackle off, and she sighed and pulled her sweatshirt over her head. She looked over to Michael, who was still sitting in his customary place in what she was coming to think of as "their" loveseat.

"Coming?" she asked him rhetorically, before noticing that Didi hadn't moved from her spot, curled up in the corner of the couch nearest to Michael's end of the loveseat, either. Michael's eyes caught hers for just a second, and his head jerked sideways ever so slightly, as if to say, 'Go.'

She silently made her way behind the loveseat, out of Didi and Michael's view, but within earshot still, and listened.

"I'm scared, Michael," she heard Didi say very quietly as the other patients filed out and into the dining room. Sara could see the back of her head only as she stared down into her lap.

She saw Michael nod. "You could just try one thing," he replied, his voice lowered too. "Like, I don't know. Just drink your milk, maybe? It's like drinking the replacement, pretty much. Except it doesn't taste like a butterscotch flavored frog."

Didi giggled, and her head popped up, turning towards Michael. "That stuff does taste like a frog, doesn't it? It's really slimy."

"Yeah," Michael said, and Sara could hear the good humor in his voice, and also the hope. She felt that hope too, somewhere deep in her chest. She heard Michael take a deep breath. "Come on. We'd better get in there, before someone starts looking for us."

"I don't know if I can do it," Didi said. She sounded so young; Sara just wanted to grab her and hug her and tell her it would be okay.

Apparently, it affected Michael the same way. "You can," he said, and he leaned forward and squeezed her shoulder. "I have faith in you. Come on."

Michael stood first, and then reached his hand out to Didi. Sara watched as Didi put her small hand into Michael's and allowed him to pull her off the couch. Then she looked up at Michael—

Who was looking straight at her. Busted. She smiled guiltily, and was relieved when his lips turned up slightly in return.

She turned and walked towards the dining room, hearing the rattling noise of Didi's feeding pole behind her as Michael and Didi followed her inside.

"There you are!" one of the nurses said. "We had a whole gap at the table. Sit down; I'll take your tray lids."

Sara sat down, and watched covertly as Didi sat next to her, Michael landing on her other side. She handed the lid of her tray to the hovering nurse and looked over her tray, which, as usual, seemed piled with food. Oatmeal with brown sugar, an enormous muffin, butter, milk, and an orange? Well, she could do it. It wasn't as bad as Sofia's tray, at least, with two miniature boxes of cereal, the same huge muffin, eggs, bacon, and milk, plus raisins. She was grateful for that.

Next to her, she heard Didi sigh. She looked over at the little girl, who was staring at her box of cereal, apple, and carton of milk with wide eyes. "You can do it, Didi," she said quietly.

Didi looked up at her, questioning. "Try what Michael said," Sara continued, keeping her voice low. "Just the milk."

Sara intentionally turned to her own breakfast and began to unpeel her muffin and cut it into four pieces before looking over to Didi again. This time, she saw Michael whispering something to her.

As she spread her butter over the muffin, she saw Didi's small hands reach for her milk. Sara forced herself to keep working on her breakfast and not stop and hold her breath as the little brown hands carefully brought the carton closer to herself. She saw the girl look towards Michael again, and saw Michael give her a little nod.

Sara took a bite from one of the quarters of the muffin and started chewing as Didi slowly, carefully wrestled the top of the milk carton open. Then her hands retreated back to her lap. Sara could see her small shoulders moving as she took some deep breaths.

Sara took another bite and chewed and swallowed before saying anything. "You're doing really good, Didi," she encouraged in an undertone. "Do you want a straw? To make it easier?"

Didi hesitated, and Sara took a breath. "It might make it feel more like it's just a replacement that way," she suggested.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Didi's head bobbed a yes, and Sara turned towards the head of the table where one of the nurses was sitting. "May I have a straw, please?" she asked.

The nurse cheerfully passed down a wrapped plastic straw, which Didi took from Sara, and carefully pried the paper off. Sara finished another quarter of her muffin and watched her progress without appearing to do so.

She started on the third quarter of the muffin as Didi put the straw into the milk, and finished off the muffin and half of the orange before Michael whispered something else into Didi's ear. Didi shook her head vigorously, and Sara felt her heart sink. Maybe this wasn't going to go anywhere, after all?

She wiped her sticky fingers on the paper lining her tray and stirred her oatmeal, looking at Michael over Didi's head. He bit his lower lip for just a moment, and she could see that he wasn't sure what to do either.

Then she looked at Michael's tray. He still had half a muffin, some eggs, and a carton of milk left. And she had milk left. She had an idea.

"May I have two more straws down here?" she asked, turning back to the nurse at the head of the table.

"Sure," the nurse, Kara, replied, sending them down. Sara kept one for herself, and handed one to Michael. His eyes lit up, and she knew he got it.

"We'll do it with you, Didi," she heard Michael say. "Okay? We've all got milk." Sara opened her container, and peeled the paper off her straw, watching Michael do the same. "Sound like a plan?"

Didi looked back and forth between Michael and Sara. "You'll do it with me?" she asked quietly.

"Yep," Sara replied. "Ready?" She moved closer to the straw. She saw Michael do the same, and after a moment, and a deep breath, Didi followed their example.

"Okay," Didi said, and then she put her lips on the straw.

To Sara, and now to Michael, it was just another drink of milk, but when Didi pulled back from the straw, and there was a small bead of milk on her lower lip—that was a miracle.

He was busy talking to Sara as he left stretch, and so he didn't notice the cart loaded with luggage. Michael's foot snagged the wheel, and he lurched forward. A strong hand caught his arm, keeping him upright.

"You alright there, boy?" an unfamiliarly accented voice asked. He looked up into a face he'd only seen a few times before. T-Bag's partner, John, was standing there, looking as gruff and frightening as always. Michael nodded, and he felt himself relax a little as the man released his arm.

Behind him, Sucre said, "What're you doin' here, John?"

John's lip turned up in what might have been a smirk and might have been a smile. "Picking up Teddy," he said.

"What?" Michael said, surprised. "T-Bag didn't say anything about going home."

"T-Bag?" John echoed, raising his eyebrows. Michael felt his shoulders stiffen. Whoops.

"Relax, John," T-Bag drawled from behind them. "It's just a nickname." He walked up to the frightening-looking man and put his hand on his waist. "I've got my discharge papers sugar. We can go."

Michael saw John make a sort of 'hmph'-ing noise, and move behind the cart to push it. T-Bag walked over towards the kids.

"I said my fair-thee-wells to Charles and the other adults already," he said. "Figure I'd better wish you young'ns luck too." He smiled at them, and put out his hand. Sofia, Sucre, Sara, and finally Michael shook his hand. "You kids get over this the first time, hmm? Do it right, okay?" He patted Didi's shoulder. "You all's good kids."

He walked over to John then. "Alright, baby," he said in an undertone. "Let's go."

Michael couldn't help but watch them walk away, and think about how T-Bag had told him that he'd done this before. Would he do it again? Or would this really be his last time?

He felt Sara's hand slip into his and squeeze. "Come on, Michael," she said softly. And Michael let her pull him away.

Sofia slid into the place next to Sara at lunch with a little smile. "Hey chica," she said.

"Hey," Sara said, removing the lid from her tray. Sofia did the same, and both girls handed their lids to the nurse behind them. They were quiet for a moment as they surveyed the lunch in front of them. Sara began cutting her sandwich in half when Sofia interrupted her concentration.

"So," she said. "You and Michael."

Sara startled. "Shh," she said, looking around. They were at the far end of the table though; well out of earshot of the nurses, and Michael and Sucre were seated at the other table, so she turned back to Sofia. "What about it?" she asked finally.

"What about it?" Sofia repeated. "I saw you grab Michael's hand. You have a thing for him, hmm?"

Sara felt herself blush. She took a bite of her sandwich, so she wouldn't have to answer, and Sofia giggled.

"I knew it!" she said. "I told Sucre you did!" She took a bite out of her sandwich as well.

Sara chewed fast, and swallowed. "What? What did you tell Sucre?" she demanded.

Sofia took an irritatingly long time to chew and swallow that bite of sandwich, but finally she did. "I told him you two liked each other," she said. "Especially after I saw you sneak off wherever you two sneak off to."

"Shh!" Sara said again, looking over her shoulders. "Keep it down."

"So, where do you go anyway?" Sofia asked. "I covered for you once, you know." She took another dainty bite of her sandwich.

"I heard, and thank you," Sara said.

"Es no problema," Sofia replied. "So…?"

Sara shrugged, and changed the subject. She didn't want to give up her and Michael's 'secret spot'. "It's not like we do anything," she said. "We were just…uh…snuggling." She felt her cheeks heat up, though. She took another bite, trying to hide it.

Sofia giggled again. "Snuggling?" she asked. She took a sip of her milk and shook her head. "Ai. What would your papa say?"

"Nothing good, I'm sure," Sara said. "But I don't care."

"You like the bad boy, hmm?" Sofia asked.

"Maybe," Sara replied.

Sofia grinned. "So, has he kissed you yet?"

"Sofia!" Sara hissed.

"Well?" Sofia persisted. Sara felt herself turn red right to the tips of her ears.

"No," she said. "Not yet."

Sofia winked. "Well, keep me posted."

Michael and Sucre stood outside their door, waiting for the aide to come unlock their bathroom.

"Hey Papi," Sucre said. "How come you never said nothing 'bout you and Sara?"

Michael startled. "What?" he asked. "I…uh…" He wasn't sure what to say.

Fortunately, Bellick came by just then and said, "Bathroom?" Both boys nodded, and the man pushed past them to unlock their bathroom quickly. "Orange bands?" he grunted. Michael and Sucre both lifted their hands to show off their banded wrists, and Bellick exited.

"You can go first," Michael said. Sucre nodded, and walked into the bathroom. Michael dropped onto his bed.

"Well?" Sucre asked from inside the bathroom after a long moment.

"Well," Michael said, knowing immediately that Sucre was continuing their conversation from before Bellick's interruption, "I don't know. It seemed…rude, I guess."

Michael heard the water running in the bathroom, and heard Sucre muttering in Spanish. He walked out of the bathroom. "Seemed rude? I bet she told Sofia everything."

Michael shrugged. "I don't know," he said. He laughed softly. "There's not a hell of a lot to tell."

"But she grabbed your hand in the hallway," Sucre said. "Are you guys, like, dating or what?"

Michael shrugged again. "Can you really date, in a place like this?" he countered. "I don't know."

"Well, shit Papi. What do you know?" Sucre asked, exasperated.

Michael stood up. "I know that I like her. A lot," Michael said. He looked Sucre in the eyes. "I'll figure the rest out later, I guess." He inched past his friend and into the bathroom.

"Ay," he heard Sucre say.

Michael finished up in the bathroom and washed his hands, then walked out of the bathroom and locked it again.

"Hey, I got one more question for you," Sucre said from his bed. He moved the curtain back with a swish, and Michael turned partway so he could see his friend's face.

"Yeah?" Michael replied, leaning against the wall.

Sucre grinned, in that way that he did when he was teasing. "You kiss her yet, Papi?"

Michael glared back. "I'll keep you posted," he replied sardonically.

Sara stood behind Sofia and Sucre, frozen in place as she listened to their quiet conversation.

"It's just that I look at my legs and I can see that they're getting bigger," Sucre muttered. He ran his hands over his legs where they were sticking out of the bottoms of his sweatpants, and sucked on his teeth. "I'm getting so paranoid about it."

"You know that's only in your head, querido," Sofia said gently. "You're not like me. You didn't show up in here super-underweight, no? Not like me; they've probably dumped a good thirty pounds on mis pequeños huesos." She held up her wrist. It still looked like she had little bones to Sara; she just didn't look like she was skin stretched tightly over a skeleton anymore. "Mi papa told me I looked like one of those people from the Holocaust or something."

"But you don't," Sucre said. "You look fine."

"But I did," Sofia said. "Before, when Mama and Papa brought me to the hospital. Mama was scared I was dying." Sofia shook her head.

Sara looked at them both. They were both, she decided, thinner than her. Sucre's legs were thinner than hers. She studied them as he rubbed at his calves some more. Yes. His legs were thinner than hers. And he was a BOY. God. She was humongous.

She looked at the clock. It had been an hour since dinner. She'd go to her room, and get away from these terribly skinny people who made her feel like an ogre.

Michael looked around. Sara had said she'd be right back…and then she'd just disappeared. Where on earth had she went?

He looked up at the clock. It was over an hour past. Maybe she'd gone to her room, he thought. He stood up, and made another sweep around the main room, but didn't see her signature auburn hair. Well, he'd go look for her.

He walked down the adolescent hallway to her and Didi's room, and paused outside of her door. He raised his hand to knock.

He heard the choking whimpers before his fist could fall. "Sara?" he whispered frantically, unsure of what to do. Her door was slightly open, like the rules dictated that it had to be, but it wasn't open far enough that he could see into it, and he wasn't sure if he should push it open or just stand there or what.

She made his mind up for him. "Michael?" he heard her say. Her voice sounded so sad.

He pushed the door open a little, then looked down the hallway. No one was coming; hell, no one was looking. "I'm coming in," he said, and he squeezed through the small opening before shutting it to the two-inch space it had been before. What he saw made his heart clench.

Sara had her curtains open--something that was strictly against the rules after dark--and she was staring at herself in the resulting mirrored surface with a look close to contempt on her face. She'd pulled off the sweatshirt she usually bundled up in, and was wearing only pajama pants and a camisole. Her eyes met Michael's via the mirror. Tears were running down her face.

"Oh, Sara," he whispered.

"I'm so fat, Michael," she said quietly. "They've made me so fucking fat…" She turned her eyes away from him. Michael watched her study her body in the window's mirror; watched her eyes make their way from her forehead down to her thighs, where the window thankfully cut off. He looked at her beautiful graceful neck, her strong arms, the perfect little curves that made his body react in a rather predictably male manner…but there was nothing fat there. Nothing.

"You're not," Michael said, coming up behind her. She was still glaring at herself, running her hands over her stomach and thighs.

"But I am, Michael," she whimpered. He could see her still staring at her body, and he shook his head.

"No," he said.

She turned to him. "My legs are bigger than Sucre's, Michael! And he's a guy! How can you explain that, huh? It's because I'm fat, okay!" A fresh cascade of tears fell down her cheeks.

Michael wanted to laugh, almost, but he knew that Sara would not appreciate it, so instead he shook his head. "Your legs are not bigger than Sucre's, Sara."

"They are too," she said, and she hitched up the leg of her pants. "Look."

Michael studied her calf again, although he really didn't need to. He knew what her legs looked like—they were phenomenal. She wore Capri sweats all the time. And they were not bigger than Sucre's. "Definitely not bigger than Sucre's, Sara," he said again. "I'd know."

"How would you know?" Sara demanded.

"Because," Michael said. "I love your legs. They're beautiful. Sucre's? Not so much."

She straightened up, and he could tell that he'd surprised her. Well, good. That made him smile, at least. But then, she turned back to the mirror, and started looking herself over again with critical eyes.

He gently grabbed her wrists and leaned closer to her, letting his chin rest on her shoulder. He moved close enough so she was leaning into his chest, and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. He felt her relax a little bit. The pair stood like that for a few minutes, looking at each other in the mirror.

"You trust me, right Sara?" he asked quietly.

Sara nodded, her head bobbing next to his. Michael smiled.

"Okay. Shut your eyes," he instructed. He watched her in the window as her eyes slowly closed. Then, slowly, almost cautiously, he turned his head and kissed her lightly on the cheek. He heard her intake of breath, but she didn't open her eyes.

"You're beautiful, Sara Tancredi," he whispered in her ear. "And don't tell me you're not, because my eyes are perfectly good. 20/20, in fact."

"Really? 20/20?" Sara asked.

"Yep," Michael replied.

There was a long silence.

"Well," Sara said finally. "Who am I to argue with 20/20?"

He sighed into her neck.

"Come on. Let's shut these stupid curtains." He reached up with one arm and grabbed the string that controlled the shades, and pulled on it. They slowly slid across the track, obscuring both he and Sara from view. He sighed again, this time in relief, and wrapped his arms back around her.

"We'd better get back out there, before someone comes looking for one of us," Sara said. Michael could hear the regret in her voice.

"Yeah, I guess so," Michael replied, but he didn't move. He just held her tightly in his arms.


	22. The Advice

"Today's case management again," Michael said

"Today's case management again," Michael said. He sat on top of his flawlessly made bed with his legs crossed and tapped his thighs.

"I don't know what you're so worried about," Sucre said, as he made his bed. "You always worry yourself crazy about it, but really? I mean, you have your orange band, yeah? What kind of news are you going to get in case management?" He finished tucking in the last corner of his blankets.

"I don't know. That's the point," Michael said.

"You're crazy, Papi. My advice? Que sera, sera," Sucre said. "Come on. They're gonna call breakfast any second now."

Michael smirked and stood up, pushing his feet into his slippers. "I can hardly wait," he deadpanned.

"Some things never change," Sucre replied.

Lincoln picked up the telephone on the third ring. "Hello?" he said roughly into the receiver.

"Hello. May I speak with Lincoln Burrows please?"

Lincoln took a deep breath. He recognized this voice; the doctor, calling about Michael again. "This is Lincoln," he said, sinking down into his battered couch. "How's Michael doing?"

"I see you recognized me; this is Dr. Alexander Mahone, from the hospital. I'm just calling to tell you how he's progressing," the doctor said.

Lincoln nodded. "So?" he asked.

"So, things are actually going very well for your brother. As we talked about last Thursday, his weight is continuing to rise, and his vital signs, while still lower than we'd like, are remaining stable, which is good; that means that his body is handling the weight gain as well as can be expected."

"What are they looking like?" Lincoln asked.

The doctor quoted him the numbers, which made Lincoln shake his head. They sounded awful to him still, but according to the doctor, that was as good as could be expected. He wasn't a doctor; he'd have to trust this man, he supposed.

"He's continued to eat, and the supplemental feeding is continuing at night; we'll continue that until his BMI is closer to a normal range—"

"How long do you think that will take?" Lincoln asked.

He could practically see Dr. Mahone shrug. "It really depends. If his body continues to react how it has, maybe another two or three weeks? Something like that. If his metabolism stops working so hard to counteract his weight gain, it could be sooner. We'll just have to wait and see."

Lincoln sighed. He knew it wasn't Michael's fault that his body was fighting so hard against gaining weight…but still.

"He's doing very well," Dr. Mahone said. "He's made quite a turn-around in these last four weeks, Mr. Burrows."

Sheesh, Lincoln thought. Four weeks. It had really been four weeks? He'd visited his brother a few times each week, but somehow, it hadn't really made it through his head, how long his brother had been stuck in that hospital. Four whole weeks.

"So? Did you hear anything?" Michael asked Sara.

She smiled at him over her shoulder. "Nothing yet," she replied. "How about you?"

"Nope," he replied. "Like Sucre said; probably nothing to hear anyway."

"Yeah, really," Sara said. "They haven't told me anything really, ever. Except when I got my orange band. But other than that…nothing I wanted to hear, anyway. Every once in awhile, they told me they were upping my meal-plan again." She rolled her eyes. "Obviously, that was thrilling."

"Well, then, we'll say no news is good news, huh?" Michael said. He plopped down next to her on their loveseat.

"Yep," Sara answered, nudging his knee with hers. "No news is good news."

"Really?" Frank Tancredi said. "You're considering releasing Sara?" He propped the phone between his shoulder and his chin, and stopped writing for a moment.

"Well, she's medically stabilizing," Dr. Mahone explained. "I think she'd be ready to go to intensive outpatient treatment, or perhaps a day treatment program, depending on what your insurance covers, by the end of the week."

Frank frowned. "But is she cured?" he asked.

"Cured?" Dr. Mahone sounded surprised.

"Yes. I can't have her coming home if she's going to continue doing this," Frank said. He thought about the campaign season coming up; what if the press got ahold of this story? They'd have a field day, with Governor Tancredi's barfing brat. "She's got to be cured before she comes home."

"Eating disorders are very complex, Governor Tancredi," Dr. Mahone said. "It's not exactly a matter of 'curing', so to speak—"

"Well, I need her to be better before she comes home," Frank said. He pursed his lips. "Look, if it's a matter of insurance, I'll pay out of pocket for you to keep her longer. Sara—Sara needs more intense treatment. She's a very strong-willed girl. My advice would be to reconsider releasing her, at least for the time being. Otherwise," Frank said, dropping his voice, so it became silky, and ever-so-slightly menacing, "I might have to find other arrangements for her treatment, if I find that you didn't adequately care for my daughter. There could be repercussions. Do you understand me?"

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. Finally, he heard Dr. Mahone clear his throat.

"I understand," he heard Dr. Mahone say stiffly.

"Thank you," Frank said. "Now, I need to go. There's someone on the other line."

Frank hung up the phone before the doctor could reply.

"Well," Michael said, returning to the loveseat, "I got my case management."

"And?" Sara said, raising her eyebrows.

He smiled. "No news."

She grinned back. "Same here."

He collapsed down next to her, and she grabbed his hand, then hid their hands between them, and they sat like that until the P.A. crackled on, calling them to snack.

Lincoln pressed the button for the eighth floor with a sigh. He'd done this, it seemed, so many times. Other people came in and visited loved ones, and then their loved ones went home…but the patients on the eighth floor seemed to just remain, and remain, and remain.

Right before the doors closed, a black couple slid inside. Lincoln nodded at them; he recognized them as the parents of that little girl that Michael had be-friended upstairs. They nodded back, then stared forwards, as did he. The ride to the top floor was awkward in the silence.

"Eighth floor," the elevator intoned as the doors opened. Lincoln exited the elevator quickly and made his way down the familiar hallway, looking for Michael's familiar face.

He saw the familiar back of his head instead. His brother was sitting on a loveseat, next to Sara. Lincoln smirked. He'd found him next to her, in that same loveseat, the last three times he'd visited. He'd tried to rib his brother about it, but Michael was completely unshakeable. He'd just shrug.

But this time, Lincoln noticed as he got right above them, the pair were holding hands, rather sneakily hidden under a sweatshirt. It made Lincoln laugh out loud.

Michael jerked around. "Lincoln!" he yelped. "You scared me!" His free hand covered his heart dramatically, but he didn't, Lincoln noticed, release Sara's hand.

Lincoln leaned over and put his mouth close to his brother's ear. "I caught you, too," he said.

"Huh?" Michael said. He let go of Sara's hand and balled his sweater up, standing up.

Lincoln smirked. "How are you, Sara?" he asked, straightening up.

Sara smiled at him, twisting in her seat. "I'm doing well," she said. "How are you?"

"Good," Lincoln said. He turned to Michael again. "You want to go to your room?"

Michael looked around the room for a second, then nodded. "Sure," he said. He looked down to Sara. "I'll see you later, okay?" he said.

"Yeah," Sara said. "Have a nice visit." She flashed him another smile. Lincoln tried to hide his smirk; he wasn't sure he succeeded.

He followed Michael to his room. Michael sat at the head of his bed, curling his knees to his chest. Lincoln sat at the edge of the bed, leaning back on his hands, and looked over teasingly at his brother.

"So, Mikey," he said. "You got a girlfriend, huh?"

The look Michael gave him was fish-like and gaping. Lincoln couldn't resist poking again.

"Holding hands under a sweatshirt? What else are you two up to?"

"Stop it," Michael said. Lincoln could see him blushing a little though.

"Ah, Mike. How cute," Lincoln teased.

"Shut up." Michael gave him a look. "How far do you really think I'm gonna get with a girl when I've got a fucking tube in my nose? Even here, it's not exactly what all the girls want."

The question was serious, and it stopped Lincoln's teasing.

"She does like you, though," Lincoln said, seriously this time.

Michael shrugged. "Yeah," he said.

"Okay," Lincoln said. He looked at Michael. "And you like her?"

Michael just gave Lincoln a look, like 'No shit, Sherlock.' Lincoln nodded again, thinking.

"You kiss her yet?" he asked after a second.

"Lincoln!" Michael scolded.

"Well?" Lincoln asked, studying his brother's countenance. Michael made a face, and then sighed.

"Sort of," he said. "Not exactly."

"What the fuck does that mean?" Lincoln asked.

Michael shrugged again. "It wasn't like, on the lips, so…not exactly."

Lincoln smirked again. "Chivalrous of you," he remarked.

Michael laughed then, but he didn't sound very happy. "I didn't think the tube in the nose would be, uh…conducive…to real kissing," Michael said, looking up at his brother through his eyebrows. He twisted his head a little, and Lincoln saw what Michael meant; it would definitely get in the way.

"Well, I probably shouldn't be encouraging you to try to score in the hospital, in your adolescent fashion," Lincoln said, "but I don't think you guys have enough privacy to get too busy, right?"

He saw Michael wince, and he knew his brother had caught his meaning. Michael shook his head. "I'm still fifteen," Michael said.

Well, just because Lincoln had lost it early didn't mean Michael would…Lincoln continued on.

"I talked to Dr. Mahone earlier today, on the phone, and he told me you should be free of that tube in about two or three weeks, if everything goes well," Lincoln said. "So…just keep doing everything you need to do to get better, and you should get your chance to play tonsil hockey with Sara."

"You make it sound so gross," Michael complained. "Really? Two or three more weeks? That's so fucking long, Linc."

Lincoln looked at his brother. He looked so much healthier now than he had four weeks ago, and yet he still had a fair way to go. "I know, Mike," he said, squeezing his brother's shoulder. "At least you have Sara though, right? It's better than being alone. And your other friends; Sucre, Sofia, that little one."

"Yeah," Michael said. "Yeah." He smiled at Lincoln, and Lincoln was grateful to see that it was a true smile. "It could be a lot worse."

"You're doing good," Lincoln said. "I'm proud of you Michael."

The crackle of the PA interrupted them. Lincoln grimaced as he heard the nurse begin the now-familiar announcement about visiting hours being over and driving carefully. He stood up.

"Give me a hug, huh, little brother?" he said, opening his arms. Michael wrapped his arms around him, and they hugged for a long moment.

Lincoln released him. "Alright," he said. "Have a good night, okay?"

"Yeah," Michael said.

Lincoln smiled. "Now, go take of your girl."

Michael rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the advice," he deadpanned.


	23. The Confusion

"I've been drinking stuff," Didi said

"I've been drinking stuff," Didi said. She looked up at Michael, and over to Sara, then back to Michael again. "That's good, isn't it?"

"Si, that's good," Sofia said from Didi's other side. Michael nodded too.

"It is good," he said. "But you've got to keep going. They didn't stop tube feeding me during the day until I started eating, not just drinking. You know?" He cocked his head questioningly at the little girl.

Didi stared down at the top of her doll's brown hair. "Really eating?" she asked quietly.

Michael nodded. "Yeah," he said.

All four of the older teenagers watched Didi as she combed her fingers through her doll's hair, staring down into her lap. She seemed to be thinking really hard.

Finally, she looked up. "What did you start with?" she asked.

Michael shrugged. "Carrots," he said.

Didi wrinkled her nose. Sofia smiled.

"How about something like oatmeal, querida?" she asked. "They give that practically every morning for breakfast. That's not too hard, right?" Sofia patted Didi's hand. "You could do that tomorrow morning."

Didi met Sofia's eyes; Sofia nodded at her. "Will you do it with me?" she asked.

"Whoever's sitting by you tomorrow will do it with you, okay?" Michael said. He looked around to his other friends; they were all nodding. "You can do it, Didi. We'll be right next to you, okay?"

He saw Didi's brow wrinkle uncertainly, but she nodded. "Okay," she said quietly.

"Okay," Michael said.

He ended up watching from the far end of the table as Didi and Sucre made their way through the first bowl of oatmeal. But at the end of the meal, they were all there to give Didi high fives and hugs.

"You did it," Michael said. "One step closer."

She smiled at him, and even if the smile was a little shaky, it was a real smile. "Yep," she said. "One step closer."

"It's weird," Michael said, tapping at his crossed legs. He stared down contemplatively at his feet.

"What's weird?" Heather asked after a long moment of silence. Michael looked up at her, as if surprised.

"Oh," he said. He licked his teeth. "Um. It's weird to me, that somehow, if you try to make it easier for someone else…you know? Like in the dining room, trying to get Didi to try to eat something, for example…but that made it easier for me too, somehow. Even though I was already eating and everything, but doing it with her, to convince her it was a good idea, that made it different."

He stared off into the distance for a moment. Heather could tell he was thinking hard.

She let the silence sit between them for awhile before speaking. "Why do you think that is?" she asked finally.

Michael's eyes swept over hers, and settled on the lampshade over her right shoulder. He took a deep breath, his ribcage expanding.

"Maybe," he said hesitantly, "it's because you can see it's what's good for them. It makes you happy, because you see them doing something that's good for them. That's making them healthier. And so even though it's really hard to believe it's what's good for you…you know that if you were looking through their eyes, at yourself, you'd be happy that your friend was doing something that was making themselves better too." His eyes met hers again. "Do you get what I mean?"

Heather smiled. "I think I do," she replied.

Sara stared at the tray in front of her, feeling her stomach churn. Oh God. She couldn't do this.

Michael noticed. "Are you okay?" he asked quietly from his spot next to her.

She took a deep breath. "It's…it's pizza," she said.

Michael could hear the worry in her voice. She sounded almost sick, actually. He looked at her face, and it was drawn.

"I don't…" He watched her lick her lips. "Not unless I'm gonna…you know." Her eyes flickered sideways towards his.

Yeah, Michael understood. He wished he could reach over and grab her hand, to give her comfort. It wasn't like this was his preference as far as food was concerned either, but Sara…Sara looked really terrified.

It was easier for him, he supposed, since he had the tube anyway, to be less afraid of specific foods. He'd known, pretty much since he'd arrived here, that if he fought against this, he'd just be fighting a losing battle. And with Heather's help, he was starting to see that, really see it. But Sara didn't have a tube, and they hadn't made her gain a lot of weight…so it was probably scarier for her.

Sara looked over at Michael, who had picked up one of the pieces of pizza on his tray. He took a small bite off the end of it. She watched as he chewed it. Seriously? He wasn't worried about it at all? It didn't bother him?

She saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. "What?" he asked afterwards a little self-consciously, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. .

She realized she'd been staring. "Sorry," she said. "I…nothing." She turned back to her own tray, and starting to eat her salad, carefully avoiding the pizza.

Michael watched her, and the clock, working his way through his tray. She ate everything else, in her slow, careful way, but she avoided the pizza with surgical precision.

He glanced up at the clock. Fifteen minutes left. He bit his lower lip, and made a decision.

"Sara," he said quietly. She startled anyway.

"Yeah?" she said, turning to him.

"The pizza?" he asked.

Sara's eyes met his for just a second. "I can't," she said.

Michael looked up to the head of the table, but the nurse was busy watching someone else. "Why not?" he asked.

Why not, he asked. Was he serious? "The calories," she breathed. "The fat. It's so bad for you." She wondered if Michael actually heard her, or if he just read her lips. Either way, he shrugged. He shrugged!

"They're going to replace you," he said.

"I know," Sara said.

"It'll be the same thing," Michael replied.

"It's not the same thing," Sara argued, keeping her voice down.

"Yeah," Michael said, with a little nod. "The Two-Cal's disgusting. You might as well eat the pizza." He shrugged again. "At least that tastes good, right?"

"But the Two-Cal's not as many—"

"Yeah, it is," Michael said. His tone was almost, but not quite, wheedling. "Come on, Sara. You can do it."

She looked at him. "Michael…"

"You can do it, Sara," he said. His eyes met hers. "Please?"

She looked at him for a long moment, and sighed. Then, slowly, she looked down at the pizza sitting on her tray.

He had said 'Please'…

Usually, Sara would have wanted to sit with Michael, but not today. Not after that dinner. Why had he convinced her to eat it? He was wrong, damn it! It wasn't the same thing. It would have been better to drink the Two-Cal probably, and not eat that pizza.

So she avoided him; she avoided all of her friends actually. Instead, she sat by Charles, who smiled at her in greeting but otherwise left her alone to brood over the damage she'd done to herself. She could feel her friends watching her. Especially Michael. She could feel Michael's beautiful turquoise eyes pleading with her. But she avoided them.

At the one hour mark, she hurried to her room. It was too late to purge it; that was the whole point of the hour, she knew. But she could look for the damage, at least.

She shut her door except for half an inch, and slipped open the window curtains, peeling off her oversized sweatshirt. Already, darkness had fallen outside, leaving a perfect reflective surface. She stared at her reflection in the resulting mirror.

She wanted to cry. Immediately, thoughts about the disgusting width of her thighs, and the amount of flab hanging around her waist pounded against her skull. And she'd just made that worse. Hadn't she? Yes, she could practically see that pepperoni plastering itself to her hips. Oh God. Fat, fat, fat!

Suddenly, out of nowhere, seemingly, Michael's voice popped into her head. "You're beautiful, Sara Tancredi," she heard him whisper again.

"Shut up," she mumbled. "You're the idiot who told me to eat the damn pizza. And now I'm fat!"

"You're not," she heard his echo say again, just like he had before, in this very room. Except that he wasn't actually here tonight, because she'd pushed him away in her anger. The thought brought more tears to her eyes.

"I'm such a loser! A fat, ugly loser!" Sara moaned into her hands.

Now, the voice she heard was Dr. Pope's. "Let's work on re-phrasing some of those judgments, shall we?" she heard his gentle voice prod inside her head.

"How the hell am I supposed to do that?" she hissed, slumping forward against the window.

"Sara?" she heard a feminine voice ask behind her. "Are you okay in here?"

"Shit!" Sara cried. She spun around just in time to come face to face with Ruth, her nurse.

Ruth seemed to take in all at once the unveiled window, her state of undress, and her complete lack of poise, and she took it in stride. "Having a hard night?" she asked, walking over to the window and closing the curtains as Sara pulled her sweater back over her tank top. Sara swallowed hard, wondering if she was in trouble. The nurse turned back to her. Her expression was kind, though, and so Sara risked the truth.

"Yeah," she whispered.

"Sit down," Ruth said, gesturing to Sara's bed. "You wanna talk about it?"

Sara meant to say no, but somehow, the backs of her thighs hit the bed, and her mouth opened. "I don't understand," she wailed.

The nurse perched against the end of the bed. "What don't you understand, Sara?" she asked patiently.

"I'm supposed to rephrase judgments and all that, but how am I supposed to not hate myself for doing something really awful?" Sara cried. "I ate the damn pizza and now I'm going to be fat and I was mean to Michael and he probably hates me now and no wonder I'm calling myself a fucking fat loser, because that's w-what I a-a-am!" The last three words came out in a sort of half-sob, half-wail as Sara curled into a ball and started to sob.

"Oh, Sara," Ruth said.

Sara was startled when she felt her hand lightly touch her back. "It'll be all right, Sara," Ruth said. "Take a breath, and try to calm down, okay? That's a good girl."

Her sobs seemed to last forever, but Ruth just sat with her, her hand gentle against her back. Finally, though, after what seemed like an age, they slowed to sniffles, and Ruth started to talk.

"You didn't do anything awful, Sara," Ruth said. "You confronted your eating disorder, and it didn't like it. As for Michael; last I saw, he just seemed worried about you, and a little bit confused. Boys have a tendency to get confused easily; I'm sure you could explain things to him, hmm?" Ruth nudged Sara, and Sara sniffed, and nodded in agreement. "And as far as that whole 'rephrasing judgments' thing, well. I'm pretty good at that. Do you want my help?"

Sara nodded, and pushed her hair off her face. "Please," she said shyly.

"It would be my pleasure," Ruth said.

Michael was brushing his teeth when he heard the knock on the door. "Yeah?" he mumbled around a mouthful of toothpaste.

"Michael?" he heard Sarah's voice say softly.

Immediately, Michael set down his toothbrush and swiped at the toothpaste around his mouth. "Sara?" he said back, opening the bathroom door.

"It's me," she said. He saw her, standing halfway inside his doorway. She was wringing her hands and not quite meeting his eyes.

"Are you okay?" Michael asked, looking her over worriedly. He'd been anxious about her for hours now, since dinner, actually. She'd been so freaked out about that pizza, and then after dinner, she'd ditched him and the rest of their friends…and once the hour was up, she'd just disappeared. He lowered his voice. "I was worried about you."

Her eyes met his, and she blinked a few times, quickly. "Sorry," she said. "I um…it was just sort of a, a bad night." She twisted her hands again. "You know. With the pizza and everything?"

"Are you okay, though?" Michael repeated.

"I…I was looking in the window again," she explained.

Michael felt his stomach drop. This probably wasn't good. "Okay," he said.

"And I was really freaking out," she continued, "because of the pizza. And I kept hearing…what you said." Her cheeks blushed, just a little. "About me…being beautiful. But I told you to shut up."

"Uh…" Michael said. He wasn't sure how to take that. Sara continued on.

"And then, I heard Dr. Pope, telling me to re-phrase my judgments," Sara said, a little faster, " and I got frustrated, and told him I couldn't do that, but then Ruth overheard me as she walked by in the hallway or something, and she sort of busted me looking in the window."

"Did you get in trouble?" Michael asked.

Sara shook her head. "No. We just talked. For a long time." She shrugged. "I feel better now, though."

"Well, that's good," Michael said, still feeling more than a little confused.

"Are you mad at me, Michael?" Sara asked.

"Huh?" Michael said. "What? Why would I be mad at you?"

Sara smiled then, and reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing it quickly. "Good night, Michael," she said, and then she turned, and quickly disappeared into her room.

Michael gaped after her, still feeling somewhat confused. "Good night," he said, belatedly.


	24. The Fit

"Uh…uh…uh…" He could hear it, from the other side of the curtain

"Uh…uh…uh…" He could hear it, from the other side of the curtain. Slow, rhythmic grunting. Michael froze in his place in bed, his eyes tightly shut. God, Sucre! Seriously? It was loud enough that it had woken Michael up.

"Uh….uh…" He could hear Sucre panting. He didn't want to listen to this.

Michael flipped on his side as loudly as he dared, and let out a little grunt, trying to sound like he was moving around in his sleep. Maybe he'd scare him into stopping?

He heard Sucre suck in his breath for a second, but when there were no more noises from Michael, the quiet, rhythmic grunts returned. Shit. Michael looked at his watch. 3 AM. He could be bopping it for awhile.

He'd just have to embarrass them both then, because he was NOT going to lay there and listen to that.

"Sucre!" he hissed.

Sucre let loose a long string of Spanish curse words under his breath, ending with a, "You scared the hell out of me, Michael!" in English. It sounded odd to Michael, but he didn't take the time to think about it.

"Yeah, well," Michael said, "I got sick of listening to you jerk off over there." In the darkness, Michael felt his face heat up.

"What?" Sucre said. "No, no, no. I wasn't—"

"I don't care, man, okay?" Michael said. "Just stop it. All right?" He was glad for the darkness, because his ears seemed to be flaming right now.

"But I wasn't, man. Look."

Before Michael could say that was fine, he really didn't need to look at anything, thanks very much, he was blinded as Sucre hit the light switch by his bed. There was a loud swish as he flung the curtain between their beds back, and Sucre was…laying on the floor between their beds.

Michael stared down at him. Sucre was drenched in sweat; the wifebeater he was wearing was soaked through. His pajama bottoms were sticking to his legs, and he was lying on his back with his knees up, his arms crossed over his chest.

"I've been exercising. Right now, I'm doing sit-ups," Sucre whispered. He reached up and switched the light off again, sending them back into darkness. "Not—you know."

"What?" Michael said. He could barely comprehend what he'd just seen. Sucre was soaked with sweat. "How long have you been doing sit-ups for?"

"About fifteen minutes," Sucre said. Michael sensed, rather than saw, him stand, then seat himself on the edge of his own bed. "Between checks by the nurse."

"And you only just woke me up?" Michael said.

"Yeah, well…they started to really get difficult about five minutes ago," Sucre mumbled. "I tried to keep it quiet."

Michael couldn't help but be relieved. "Oh," he said. But then he turned over onto his side and propped his head on his elbow. "Why, man?" he asked.

There was just enough light coming in from the hallway for Michael to see Sucre tug on his lower lip with his teeth. "Don't worry about it," Sucre mumbled. "It's not a big deal."

"Oh, yeah?" Michael asked. "Not a big deal? Then how come you're spending half your night exercising 'til you're soaked in sweat when you're supposed to be asleep?"

Sucre didn't say anything.

"Talk to me, man," Michael said. "It can't hurt anything, and it's got to be better than a billion crunches at three am. I've done the billion crunches thing too; you'll have trouble moving tomorrow." He actually remembered it well, from before he'd landed in the hospital; he'd barely been able to get out of bed the next day, or lift anything—who knew all the things one used their stomach muscles for?

He heard Sucre sigh, and flop backwards onto his bed. Michael laid back too, so he was staring up at the ceiling with his hands intertwined behind his head. "Go on, man," he prodded quietly again.

He heard Sucre swallow. "I tried on some jeans today," he said softly into the darkness. Michael kept staring at the ceiling. "The ones I wore when my mama brought me here. You know? And when Mama brought me here, they were—well, they were really baggy. Like, really, really baggy, falling off practically, 'cause I'd gotten kind of skinny from all that puking." He heard Sucre swallow again. "And I tried 'em on again today, just cause I was, like, curious, you know? To see how much I've changed? Well…they ain't so baggy anymore. They pretty much fit now."

Michael wasn't sure what to say. He could hear the horror in Sucre's voice as he struggled to explain why he was doing sit-ups at three in the morning, and he understood—he hadn't dared to pull on the jeans he'd worn to the hospital, terrified of what he'd find out. He just nodded in the darkness, even though he was pretty sure Sucre couldn't see him.

"It's not like those jeans are like, obnoxiously huge or nothing," Sucre said. "They're the same jeans I used to wear all the time before I got sick. And it ain't like I ever was even un poco gordo, 'cept maybe when I was like three or four, but man, I grew out of baby fat a long time ago." He heard Sucre make a strange noise, almost like a choke then. "But man, it's really freaking me out."

Michael turned and looked over at his friend, who was curled in a ball on his side. His face was tucked to his knees, but Michael could see his shoulders shaking ever so slightly in the nearly non-existent light. Shit, he thought. He sat up, and glanced at the door, listening. He heard nothing from the hallway.

He slowly reached his hand across the distance between their beds, and placed it on Sucre's shuddering shoulder, like Linc had always done for him when he'd cried. Now he knew why that was all Lincoln did—he'd felt helpless as a rock! He felt the other teen startle, and look up at him for a second.

"It's okay," Michael said, echoing Lincoln's old words. "It's gonna be okay."

Sucre's head tucked back into his knees. "I don't know," he heard Sucre mumble.

They sat there like that for awhile, until Michael's sharp ears heard the squeak of nurses' shoes in the hallway. "Rounds," he breathed, slipping back under his covers, the blankets barely making a whisper. He heard Sucre try to even out his breathing. It was, Michael decided, a passable imitation of sleep.

He felt the flashlight pass over his face, briefly turning the insides of his eyelids red. He remained still until he heard the squeak of the shoes disappear down the hallway.

It was Sucre who spoke first. "You gonna rat me out, Papi?" he asked quietly. He sounded like his nose was stuffed.

"You gonna keep doing sit-ups at three am?" Michael asked.

"I asked first," Sucre said defensively.

Michael sighed softly. The thing was, he understood it. He got why Sucre did it. There was no point in "ratting him out" as Sucre put it. "No," Michael said. "I'm not going to tell on you."

He heard Sucre sigh too; it was a sound of relief. "Well, I ain't gonna be doing sit-ups at three am no more, then," Sucre said.

Michael sensed, more than saw, Sucre's hand thrust into the space between their beds. Michael put his out too. This time, their fists bumped.

"Night, Papi," Sucre said.

"Night, Sucre," Michael replied.

Michael pulled the blue jeans up to his hips, and wondered again, if this wasn't a bad idea. It probably was. Hell, it had brought his happy-go-lucky roommate to tears—and yet, here he was, trying it.

He buttoned them, and pulled up the zipper. Oh. God. They were not baggy anymore.

He'd checked the size on the label about twenty times before finally putting them on. Yeah, okay—so he'd actually had trouble finding this particular pair of jeans at the Goodwill, because apparently 'toothpick' wasn't a common jean size…but still.

He took a deep breath. He was not going to freak out. He wasn't. He wasn't. Oh God.

The phone rang, startling him out of the beginnings of his freak out. "Hello?" he said, grabbing the receiver in a death grip.

"Michael?" The deep rumble on the other end of the line was familiar.

"Hey Linc," Michael said.

"You okay?" Lincoln asked. "You sound a little funny."

Michael perched tentatively on the edge of his bed. "Uh…don't laugh," Michael said. "I uh…I just tried on my jeans." He held his breath.

"Your jeans? You have jeans there?" Lincoln said. "Why'd you do that?"

"I wanted to see howmuchweighti'dgained," Michael mumbled.

"What?" Lincoln asked.

"I wanted to see if they'd still fit," Michael repeated more clearly. "'Cause of all the weight I gained." His voice was kind of small; he knew Lincoln wouldn't like his answer, but it was the truth.

"Michael!" Lincoln scolded. Michael felt his shoulders hunch. Then he heard his brother sigh. "Oh, Mike," Lincoln said. "You alright?"

"I don't know," Michael replied honestly. "It's weird. They…they fit, now." He stared down at himself in his jeans. They still fit—it was just that now, they FIT. Like Sucre had said. It was weird.

"I talked with your doctor," Lincoln said. "He's happy with your progress, Mike. All your vital signs and stuff are looking really good, he says. Everything is doing exactly what it's supposed to. So that's good, right?"

"Yeah," Michael said, biting at his lip. "Yeah, that's good." He could hear that he sounded nervous.

"It's good, Mike," Lincoln said more firmly. "Really. Everything. Including the fact that your jeans fit. It means you're getting healthy, okay? You listening to me?"

"Yeah," Michael said.

"Really?" Lincoln asked.

"Yeah, Linc," Michael said. "I'm listening."

"I just…I just wish he'd call, or something," Sara said. She was curled up on the loveseat, her chin tucked onto her knees. "You know? I swear, he's forgotten about me or something. He used to at least call after case management, and tell me to shape up or else—now, he doesn't even do that." She sighed, and blew a tendril of auburn hair out of her face.

Michael gave her a sympathetic half-smile. "He hasn't forgotten about you," he said. "No one could forget about you."

"You're sweet, but you underestimate my father," Sara said. "Really, he could. He has."

Michael looked around, but no one appeared to be paying attention to the pair of them, so he let his knee rest against hers. "I always used to think Lincoln had forgotten about me, especially recently," Michael said. "You know, before I ended up in here? Because he…he never noticed anything. Even when I stole twenty bucks to buy a scale…or when I basically just stopped eating. And he didn't notice. So I figured he'd forgotten about me. But he hadn't." Michael chuckled dryly. "Which I figured out about the time he dragged my stubborn ass to the doctor, practically without my permission."

Sara's smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "My dad knew exactly what I was doing," she said. "He fired my personal trainer and told me I was cheating; that if I lost weight "doing that," Sara made the quotation marks in the air with her fingers, "that it didn't count. He didn't care about what I was doing to myself though, not really. If I hadn't passed out at dance practice, he wouldn't have put a stop to it."

She sounded so sad. Michael couldn't blame her. What an asshole! What kind of man was this Frank Tancredi, to treat his daughter like that?

"And he hasn't even visited me here, once. He says he can't afford to be seen coming in and out of the hospital, lest the press find out I'm a patient here." Her lips thinned. "It would be bad for his re-election campaign."

"Oh Sara. I'm so sorry," Michael said. Heedless of the others around them, he put his arm around her. He felt her relax into it.

"At least I have you," she whispered into his ear. Her face dropped into his shoulder.

"Hey," a passing nurse said. "Guys, you can't be touching like that. Come on, now."

"Sorry," Michael said, pulling away. He hadn't been thinking! "I didn't mean anything by it. She's just upset."

Sara covered her eyes with her hands. "S-s-sorry," she stuttered. It sounded like she was crying.

The nurse stopped. "Are you okay, honey?" she asked.

Sara nodded. "I d-d-didn't mean anyth-thing," she sniffled again, her face still buried in her hands. She swiped hard at her eyes with the back of her hands and looked up; Michael was surprised to see them looking red and swollen, like she had been crying.

"It's all right. No harm done," the nurse said. "You're okay?"

Both Michael and Sara nodded, and the nurse walked away. Michael turned towards Sara again.

"You are okay, right?" he whispered.

"Acting," she whispered back. "And a lot of pressure on my eyes with my fists. Looks real, huh?"

"Shit," Michael said. "Fooled me."

Sara's eyes met Michael's. "It wasn't all acting," she said. "I am glad to have you."

"And I'm glad to have you," Michael replied.

Sara sighed. "When we get out of here…we're going to stay in touch, aren't we?"

"Yeah. Of course," Michael said. "Especially since your dad's about as helpful as a chunk of coal."

Sara smirked. "Yeah, he is, isn't he? Speaking of which, I don't know where you live, but I doubt my dad would let his driver take me there, just as a matter of principle. He's never taken me anywhere except school, home, dance class, and like, the mall."

"Don't worry, Sara," Michael said. "I'll teach you how to take a bus."


	25. The Kiss

"Hello

"Hello?" Lincoln said, tucking the phone between his shoulder and chin so he'd have both hands free to tie his son's tennis shoes. "LJ, hold still."

"Is Lincoln Burrows there?" The familiar voice of Dr. Mahone came over the line.

"This is," Lincoln said. He quickly knotted LJ's shoe up, and let his son wriggle out of his grip. "Hello Dr. Mahone."

"Lincoln," Dr. Mahone replied. "Michael's doing very well."

Lincoln listened as Dr. Mahone ran through the usual stats: Michael's weight, his BMI, his vital signs, and the like. Finally, he came to the part Lincoln always waited for impatiently—what all those numbers meant.

"I think it's time," Dr. Mahone said.

"Time for what?" Lincoln asked.

He could practically hear the man smile over the phone. "I think Michael can go without the NG tube now, if he's willing. He'd have to eat more food than he's consuming right now, of course, because we wouldn't be able to supplement him at night, but he'd be free of the tube. Of course, you'd have to give us the go ahead too."

"Are you kidding?" Lincoln asked. He'd never liked the idea of the feeding tube in the first place. His brother's face covered with tears, and the way he'd fought and bucked when they'd put it in sometimes haunted his dreams, on bad nights. "Go ahead. Get rid of the damn thing."

"I thought that was what you'd say," Dr. Mahone said. "Now, I'm going to meet with Michael. Have a good day, Lincoln."

"You too," Lincoln replied, feeling a little dazed as he hung up the phone.

Michael sat down at the table next to Sara, feeling a little dazed.

"You okay, Papi?" Sucre asked, looking up from the popsicle sticks he was gluing together. Sara glanced over at him, her eyes wide with concern.

Michael nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said. "Dr. Mahone just told me…they're gonna remove the tube."

"What?" Sucre said.

"Michael, that's great!" Sara said. She dropped her embroidery to the table and tossed her arms around his neck. "Congratulations!"

His arms automatically wrapped back around her. Over her shoulder, he saw Sucre give him a big wink.

"They're taking out your tube, Michael?" he heard Didi's little voice pipe up from Sucre's other side.

Sara released him, and he looked over to Didi, who was scrawling something on a big piece of paper with crayons. She was watching him intently with big brown eyes.

He nodded. "Yeah," he said. "They told me they'd do it today, when the nurse had time." He felt his stomach roll a little at those words. He was…was he really nervous about this?

He saw the little girl lick her lips. "Oh," she said. She kept watching him for a long moment, then returned to her paper with intensity.

"Do what today?" he heard Sofia's voice say from behind him. She slipped into the chair between him and Sucre, a big smile on her face.

"Take out my tube," Michael said. He almost couldn't believe the words, but they were true.

"Oh. Congratulations, Michael," she said. She didn't seem surprised. That big grin was still on her face.

"Thanks," Michael said. "What are you grinning about?"

If anything, the smile got bigger. "Dr. Mahone told me I get to go home!"

"What?" Michael's voice was joined by the rest of the table.

"You're going home?" Sara asked.

"When?" Sucre asked.

"Tomorrow," Sofia said. "He already cleared it with my parents and everything, I guess."

"That's amazing," Sucre said.

"What are you going to do first?" Sara asked.

"That's easy," Sofia said. "Shave! It's been so long!" She laughed. "And check my email."

"No kidding," Sara commiserated. "My legs feel furry!"

"And I'm going to watch TV. I've missed like half a season of Bones!" she said. "David Borneaz? So cute!"

Sucre rolled his eyes at Michael. "Bones? Come on."

Michael was about to open his mouth to answer when he heard the door to the O.T. room open. The teens all turned to look.

It was Kim, Michael's nurse. "Come on, Michael," she said, smiling. "Let's get this done."

Michael scrunched up his nose experimentally. It felt so different. "Wow," he repeated, \rubbing at it again. "It's really gone." And thankfully, so was the feeling like he was going to hurl that he'd had as she'd pulled it up and out.

Kim smiled at him. "It's really gone," she said, dumping the tubing into a plastic bag with a biohazard label. "Feel good?"

"Feels weird," he said, scrunching up his nose again. Kim chuckled.

"Go find your friends," she said. "Show off that cute nose of yours."

"Cute nose?" he said. "I wouldn't call it that…" But obediently he stood up and followed her into the hallway and back towards the dayroom.

Sara saw him coming down the hall. He looked…whoa. She felt her eyebrows raise somewhere into her hairline.

He walked towards her. She saw a small wrinkle of worry appear between his eyes.

"Well?" he asked, holding out his arms. "Now you get a good look at me." He looked a little awkward. "Gonna toss me back? Decided you hate my nose?"

She stood up. "I've never seen a cuter nose," she replied softly. It was intended for Michael's ears only, but behind her, Sucre let out a wolf-whistle, and Sofia said something in Spanish that Sara didn't understood, but she bet was at least PG-13, from the looks on both of the Hispanic faces.

Michael raised an eyebrow. "Cute nose?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said. She made a decision.

It was Sara who looked around for watching nurses. She didn't see any.

"Come on," she said. "Follow me."

They'd never hustled down that hallway so fast, both of them falling into the stairwell panting and out of breath.

"Anyone see us?" Sara asked in a hushed whisper. It echoed slightly around them.

Michael shook his head, and wrapped his arms around her. "I've wanted to do this for a long time," he whispered back.

Her eyes met his. They were wide and bright and eager. "Do what?" she whispered. Michael could see that she knew, and that she had been wanting it just as bad as he had.

"This," he whispered.

His lips brushed against hers, gentle. He felt her breathe out as he breathed in, and the experience was like breathing her in, like breathing a little bit of Sara. He pulled back and looked into her eyes again.

"Michael," she said.

It said a lot. He leaned in again, and their lips pressed together with an urgency. They weren't necessarily practiced kissers, or patient kissers, but their want for each other made the nose bump go by unnoticed, and the fact that he accidentally kissed her teeth in a mismatched attempt for breath cute rather than embarrassing.

And then they heard a knock.

"Oh shit!" Michael mumbled into Sara's mouth, and before they could even untangle themselves from their awkward slouch against the wall, the door to the stairwell sprang open.

"What a stud," Michael heard. His heart was thumping so fast he thought he was going to have a heart attack, but he managed to turn and look at the intruder with what he thought was an exasperated glare.

"Lincoln!"

Sara hid her head in Michael's shoulder. Her face was, she was sure, an explosive shade of red. Perhaps it would light Michael's shirt afire, and she wouldn't have to face his older brother. And oh Lord…what if he told on them?

"Wow, Michael," she heard Lincoln's voice say. "What a romantic place you've got here."

"Do you mind?" Michael hissed back, his arms still locked protectively around her. She appreciated that; if she could, she would have fled down the stairs, but that would have been fun to explain to the nurses. "You're embarrassing Sara."

"I'm embarrassing her?" Lincoln said. "You're the one playing tonsil hockey with her in a stairwell."

Sara wanted to die. Right now. Oh God. What if they told her Dad? He'd kill her. Kill her!

"Lincoln, I swear to God—" Michael said.

"All right, Mike, don't have a cow. But you two better get down to the lounge before I come looking to visit you," Lincoln said. "Otherwise the nurses are gonna be looking for you, and you're going to be hiding down here with your girlfriend."

Sara felt Michael's shoulders heave in a sigh. "Give us five minutes," he said. His chin rested on the top of her down turned head for a moment.

"I think you two had your five minutes already," Lincoln said. Sara heard him chuckle as Michael released her with one arm to punch his brother's arm as they left the stairwell.


End file.
